It is as if I have melted under a slate-gray sky, in the middle of a stifling heat, in the clouds of dust, in the exhaustion of the endless fight for life. It's as if I've disappeared somewhere in a life that is not real, as if it were a watercolor painting, clumsily sketched, yet mysterious and pale, hazy and gloomy. Or like a made-up theater stage written by someone else, directed by someone else, where I didn't choose the people who come in and out, and who fall from the sky. Lines written by others and aias grins.

I feel punished like Sisyphus of Greek mythology these days. You know, like Sisyphos, who was sentenced by Zeus to roll a huge boulder up a steep and high mountain in Tartaros (Hell). When he pushes and pushes and pushes and pushes the rock up to the top, it rolls down again. Sisyphus takes it up the hill again, and when he reaches the top, whoops! Down again... It's an endless torment. Endlessly. Millions of times.

Or like Prometheus, who stole fire from Zeus and gave it to man. For this he was punished by Zeus and chained to the rocks at the top of the Caucasus Mountain. Every night his liver was gnawed by an eagle on duty, and by nightfall it was regenerating and being gnawed again and again. Fortunately, Heracles rescued him, and I felt a little cold inside.

Even though I'm happy for Prometheus, it's as if I came to this reality only to work and run and run and run and run again. It's like I'm grounded. As if my duty is always to help someone, to teach someone something, to tell someone, to give and give again, a nonsense that goes on and on. I don't understand what this persecution is for a slice of bread (which I don't have because I'm on a lifelong diet!), a glass of water and toilet paper.

It's like a spell has been cast on my life, which I put into fifth gear. No stopping, no breaks, no respite. Always let someone else be happy? Where am I?

Do I have to be a football fan, an aunt, an auntie, a mother, a sister, a good wife, a good boss, a good colleague, a good neighbor, a good listener, viewer, participant? Have you asked me? It was not even my idea to become a pharmacist. But it was my idea to become a sociologist and a writer, a television producer, a homeopath and a bionergist and 8 other professions, so I am happy and not tired doing these things. Learning two foreign languages never upset me, I studied with love and great determination. But I feel like I don't want to do a single thing that is imposed on me anymore.

I mean, when I play one of my roles as a fan, sister, aunt, boss, neighbor, etc., I want to tear the mask off my face. At the cost of getting fired from the theater. A man, an old man, a queen, an ugly, beautiful, a witch, a useless wretch, whatever comes out from under that great hero mask. But it is real. It's better to be a miserable-looking but free Diogenes than a fake queen in redbuds.

Oh, my God! I really don't know what happened to me, I don't know if it was a solar eclipse, a full moon or a lunar eclipse, but it is clear that I am in a pathos and on the verge of madness. By the way, these blessed eclipses only affect our country, it's as if only the sun is eclipsed for us, this country is in turmoil, falling down, falling up, getting tense, getting angry. Mercury retrograde is also driving only this country crazy. What kind of mercury it is...

That's the only thing I don't understand, I know everything else... Speaking of madness, Desiderius Erasmus came to my mind again. The man whose intelligence I admire. In his book "In Praise of Madness", which he dedicated to his crazy friend Thomas Morus, he praises madness.

He says, "If you applaud yourself while everyone whistles and boos you, what do you care about the rest?" It is only madness that makes one applaud oneself. For him, being crazy is not a misfortune. In fact, to be human is to live in accordance with one's birth, one's nature. No being is unfortunate if it is in its nature. Or because a human being does not fly like a bird, walk on all fours, have a head adorned with horns like a bull, or crow like a rooster. Or can a donkey be unfortunate because it does not eat pies, or a horse because it does not know grammar? If a horse is not unfortunate because it doesn't know grammar, a human being is not so unfortunate to be mad. Because madness is his nature.

And with great irony: "If you were to sit on the globe of the moon and look at the endless toils of men who pretend to be wise and knowing, you would be as if you saw a cluster of large and small flies fighting, fighting, breaking each other, robbing each other, having fun, doing follies, being born, falling and dying."

"It is inconceivable what scenes man, who is incapable of providing himself with even a moment's breath, despite his helplessness in the face of disasters and diseases, causes on this globe with war, destruction and power.

Mukaddes Pekin Başdil

Researcher-Author

Source: Denizli Haber