Hatice Tunç
@haticetunc
Edebiyat burada bize yardım edemez.
Şu anda okuduğu kitap
Your suicide makes the lives of those who outlive you more intense. Should they be threatened by boredom, or should the absurdity of their lives leap out at them from the curve of some cruel mirror, let them remember you, and the pain of existence will seem preferable to the disquietude of no longer being. What you no longer see, they look at. What you no longer hear, they listen to. The song you no longer sing, they burst into. The joy of simple things appears to them by the light of your sad memory. You are that black but intense glow, which, since the dying of your light, freshly illuminates the day that had become obscure to them.
Hangi tür kitapları seviyorsun?
🔎 Polisiye
💕 Romantik
🚀 Bilim Kurgu
🏰 Fantastik
📖 Klasik
🧠 Kişisel Gelişim
🏛️ Tarih
😱 Gerilim
You reflected on psychoanalysis, but you didn’t practice it. You thought that treatment would normalize you, or banalize the strangeness you cultivated.
You monopolize my memories of sad rock music. When I hear certain songs, they are tainted with your nebulous presence. You didn’t use to read poetry, but you would sometimes recite it: the lyrics, without music, of the songs you liked. Rock was your poetry.
Did she remarry? In killing yourself, did you also kill her? Did she name a son in your memory? If she has a daughter, does she speak to her of you? What does she do on your birthday? And on the anniversary of your death? Does she put flowers on your grave? Where are the photographs she took of you? Did she keep your clothes? Do they still smell of you? Does she wear your cologne? What did she do with your drawings? Are they framed in a room of her house? Has she erected a museum in your honor? Which men followed after you? Did they know you? Do you, through her memory of you, make the existence of a successor impossible?
Your suicide was an action, but an action with a contrary effect: a form of vitality that produces its own death.