Mysterious people, whether real or not, suddenly want to leave this world one night in mystery and mystery. To leave the scene silently, on tiptoe. As if lost in the rusty redness of the water they left behind, in a smoky greenery where no path curves. In the desert of the infinite shade of colors stretching from light to dark, perhaps cracked by ten thousand years of thirst, in the indescribable darkness of the dying light.

In the pale phosphor of the last fourth of the moon, where everything fades away and becomes invisible, the birds of hüd hüd no longer sing. In the night that is completely plunged into darkness, in the non-existent silhouette of reality cut with a sword stroke, they want to disappear.

Patience is the birth pains of the soul, enduring is a kind of choice. It is not to reason, not to be ashamed, not to regret. To be able to voluntarily give what life wants ruthlessly. For mysterious people, the taste of being liberated by the choice they make is different, even if they silently pay the price of their choice.

Even if they push the limits with their confused minds full of tides and their passion for freedom that penetrates to their bones, they have the calmness and silence to take everything back to the beginning, destroy it and start again.

Like yeast, they turn the anger they have carried in their souls for a lifetime into an art that can be admired like a work of art, sometimes without exploding and sometimes by letting it explode, by forcing it through the eye of a needle with a concrete creation in the clichéd and abstract realm.

The world is often delicious and romantic with these mysterious people who turn the world into art. It is a more fun and livable place with them. The world of literature and writing, thought and music, painting and visual arts would be less lovable and less enjoyable without these creative spirits...

Goethe, who said "The world is a prison", drew something like the letter "W" on his body as he died of a heart attack in his bed. He was known to be interested in the Qur'an and had recently been trying to learn Arabic, and after his death it was claimed that the thing he drew was "Allah" in Arabic letters. He would always remain immortal and always be remembered for his saying "The soul always carries life with it, so it cannot die".

Cliff Burton, one of the best bassists in heavy metal music, was killed when he was thrown out of a tour bus that skidded due to ice on the road while returning from a concert in Sweden.

Just before he died, he and Kirk Hammett drew cards to sleep in the top bunk, and Cliff's choice of the ace of spades ensured that he would sleep in the top bunk. Only he was ejected from the top bunk, all the others were trapped inside the bus.

Louis Aragon, a snob and a snob, but a modern poet-writer, who said "I'm afraid to die, death makes you forget", became one of those who did not live, but lived after death. At his home in Paris, he used to leave his key on the door, never taking it out so that his friends could enter and leave his poor house whenever they wanted. He died suddenly of a heart attack on Christmas night, just after publishing his theater novel, which he called "the balance sheet of my life". However, on the feast of Humanite, he still walks around with a red mask on his face, giving talks and reading one of his poems:

All the birds have fled from my branches
Drying up abandoned nests like tears
Cheeks
The painter also left the canvas where my painting stood
Like a spider
As if regretting it

Beethoven, who accepted life as a lonely journey between poverty and wealth, from one place to the world, from the world to an unknown, left here immortalized with the tastes and flavors he left the world, like whistles that take the breath away with the residue of loves and separations. He could not find much to make him happy as long as he lived. For him, the idea of love meant both life and death, but all his loves had ended in separation and for him they were all death. One day he really and suddenly died. It is still believed that the cause of his death was a harmonica made of leaded glass.

Dostoevsky fell ill on his way to Siberia for exile. On the third day of his illness, when the train stopped, he asked for a Bible. He opened it and "And Jesus answered and said to him: I suffer now; for it is fitting for us to accomplish all salvation" and told Anna that she was going to die today. She gave the Gospel to her son, said goodbye to her children and died suddenly a few hours later in an epileptic coma.

The first speaker after the coffin was lowered into the grave was a novelist named Palm, who had been with Dostoevsky on death row in Semenevsky Field in 1849.

"As the fruit carries the kernel within it, so man carries death within him," says Rilke. This means that man is born to die. Wouldn't it be more human and humane to die quietly, instead of hanging around here and there, instead of sitting around and waiting, instead of doing things on our own scale, instead of destroying, by doing, by leaving works of our own caliber?

What is it, as Kierkegard says, "I dip my finger into existence and there is no smell. Where am I?" one feels like asking...

Mukaddes Pekin Başdil

Researcher-Author

Source: Denizli Haber