The story is below this image, for an obvious reason
I guess it is typical when you grow old, you become more and more nostalgic. The childhood memories are the best, the time window when you had no pressure, full of curiosity, energy and appetite. Perhaps the foremost, the time spent with your loving parents and siblings.
I used to hear a very deep and resonating ticking sound within one of the rooms in our family house back in hometown. The sound was so mystical, I was perplexed as I could not figure out where it was coming from, as we did not have any big watch in that room, neither in other rooms. Neighbours are far away. I had thought it might be an illusion, caused by hearing problem or so. Once, at a peaceful tea time with my mom, I heard again, somehow mom noticed my curious face, said she was hearing too. Then it became even more mystical, it was not an illusion after all. I asked why… Mom added: it supposed to be a good thing if a room has that sound. She had vaguely explained that “good” is something to do with angels or the family or that house is blessed, as far as I can recall. Anyways, that sound kept emerging time to time when I was at that room. As a physicist, I still can not explain this phenomena, it might have a simple reason, yet I have to find out. I have lived many other places since, never heard that kind of sound. The sound was so vivid, just like an old style watch ticking sound when you press it against your ear (checking my dad’s watch, checking the gears and that complicated gear geometry which looked so delicate, in fact a mechanical watch was the most luxurious item I wanted to possess). If I think back now, that sound resembles my peaceful time in that room, my childhood, my passion for drawing maps of countries on the news, my mom’s constant calls for urging me to have my already-getting-cold tea. Or that her ever peaceful, grateful, loving face while enjoying the milk tea with her family in her own house…
Another thing which is pretty much deliciously blended with my childhood is a bicycle. Our family only had one in the beginning, it was 28 size, so big and heavy for a kid. I had always struggled, for many reasons, had a difficult time learning how to ride. Partly blaming that I am the oldest kid, no one there to help me. Finally, after some help from my dearest cousin Bilal when I was about to finish elementary school, I had managed, it was such a relief as I was feeling so dumb because of the failed tries and ever growing shame knowing everyone else knows already.
So this period when everyone is on bike, I kind of miss it so dearly. I think I do not have to explain why, the older generation might feel the same.
The other day, I was watching a movie from Tornatore, called The Best Offer. His films are kind of nostalgic always, nice colours, peaceful, honest and natural. I do not wanna be spoiler alert guy here. After that movie, I felt an immense feeling which was so heavy that I could not get into sleep. Then I decided to write a poem. I hope you can feel how I was feeling if you watch it. Actually, poetry should be the purist form of transmitting your feeling by short words to others, you should not be explaining or attaching any “meaning”, should be like music, free and resonating.
Someone asked, whether I have written in my native language first than translated. I wrote this directly in English. I do not like translating any literature stuff, as most of it will die during that process. The best is, learn that damn language if you want to enjoy.
Pretty much scattered thoughts, here and there. Same in the poem, I did not try to put some logic in it. It was my brain lost for few hours, lost by thinking life, time, family matters, as usual. All that questions merge into one eventually, why we exist, what is the purpose … … why we are so fond of mystical things etc. etc. … …