A soul ending
If a poem were a short story
They were well into their sixth month in this relationship. She held the belief that he would eventually change, grow to love her and kick some habits like those retreats he went on without any notice. She was in the springtime of life, only a university student, almost gullible and inexperienced enough to believe all the illusions artists put across.
It was the second day of her boyfriend’s disappearance, and she was still hopeful, and although she found it hard, she could still enjoy ordinary things like a morning coffee, meals she cooked herself both for lunch and dinner, and TV-her favorite show. At all other times, she made calls only to hear that woman’s voice: “The person you have called is not reachable.” She hung up with no hesitance. She then sent texts to which in return she received nothing. No reply. Her eyes fixed on the screen, dashing off long sentimental emails she would probably never send, she spent the whole night crying.
The next day, waking up with swollen eyes she could barely open, infected and red, like her beaten heart, she made the promise to herself not to worry about it too much. Her boyfriend always came back. He always returned, didn’t he? She threw her mobile phone across the room, watched it landing somewhere soft, on her messy bed loaded with scrunched up tissues, scrap papers and torn packets of biscuits here and there. It was a total mess. “I cannot spend another day with this fucking phone,” she said out loud, even though there was no one to make herself heard. She tossed a book into her tote bag. The only possible solution she could find was to get lost in a story other than her own. Tangled love stories were only fun when they happened to others. Off she went for a coffee. “Going out is always a good idea,” she thought and was amazed by her own platitude –her biggest fear in life.
It was a beautiful summer day in Istanbul. Except for the motorcycles. She thought they were the reason why he could run away so easily. She couldn’t bear the noise they made. They weren’t fast, but they could always find a way to sneak in through congestion. She watched one hurtling away zigzagingly till it was out of sight. It was not an ordinary relationship. She knew it and she was ready to cope with whatever it had to bring until now. There were only three people who knew about it. She was not supposed to tell anyone since it would mean the end of his career in the art academy. He was only an assistant researcher anyway, still standing at the deep and dark stairwell of his career. Precarious. And a bit lost between unnecessary paperwork he had to deal with for others. He would complain about the donkeywork every day. What a waste of time it was that it was only useful to consume him and keep him away from creativity, his actual ambition of sculpture. He would tell her everything about the academy. The other professors, researchers, but rarely other students, her peers. He would stay in his workshop till midnight and sometimes ask her to accompany him there. If not, she would sneak in with two bottles of beer in her bag and made him let her stay with him. They would drink and look at the projects students had done to be marked, critically and most of the time mockingly.
It was one of those evenings. The last time she saw him, only four days ago. It was quiet. The corridors were dark. The whole building was theirs. It smelt oil painting, canvases, glue, and paint thinner. Dust. Brushes. Love. She liked it. To her that was exactly what life was supposed to look like. And she liked being there with him. And that was what love was supposed to feel like. It was like conquering the world. On one side of the workshop there was a pile of junk -all sorts of things, bits and pieces left from objects, gadgets, devices, things people lost hope of. He had been collecting them to make recycled sculptures. He loved turning them into monster-looking giant insects. To him, it was more like giving what was stolen back to nature. Reminding where everything actually came from. Reminding that nothing could actually disappear but only grow, grow into something else. And then he complained about the whole art community, the buzz about conceptual art and how ridiculous it was that his art wasn’t acknowledged. She listened.
Lost in thought she passed the café and walked down the steep, cobbled high street till the end where the view met the Bosporus with its metallic shine and the other smoggy side of the city in the horizon. There she was struck by the ferries, their chimneys and their baritone signals frightening the seagulls. As one of them was prepared to weigh anchor, she darted and found herself seated, breathless and proud somewhere close to its pointy prow watching waves splashing its hull. A cliché couple was sitting next to her. Hand in hand. Girl’s head on the boy’s shoulder. They took selfies all along the way, and laughed at what they captured. “Look at your face, my love. Look how silly you are. You are my little angel.” She was disgusted, she felt like something was churning in her stomach. She then heard the couple’s kissing and giggling. Was it ever possible for two people to love each other at the same time? Her desperate cry last night, her desperate unanswered texts, what were they for? Do I choose to be unhappy over being cliché?” she asked herself. The simplicity of her own doubt was making her sick. She leaned forward to observe the waves with her chin resting on the wooden bar.
She had no idea what to do on the island but as soon as she landed, she followed the crowd, rented a bike and set out. She’d been given a cute one with a basket attached, and decorated with a bouquet of artificial flowers at its handlebar. Wiping her wry face, she instantly got on it and cycled, cycled and cycled until she couldn’t. She felt exhausted gasping desperately for water. She gave a break over the cliffs where the road was bordered with ruins of stones which once probably looked like walls of a castle, Herculean, impenetrable and resilient.
A magnificent scene was before her eyes but she pictured her phone at home with an inbox full of text messages from him. Then she dreamed of him on the island next to her, cycling. They could have been one of those ordinary couples, simple, plain, uncomplicated for once just as they were in his workshop. She could have been naughty. She could have been nasty. Just like him. He could have told her about a hidden bay somewhere down the cliffs, overshadowed by giant cactuses that resembled his sculptures, and leafy trees dangling over the path down there. They could have followed the bumby track sloppily, gleefully and carelessly. They could have taken off everything. They could have done many things, been many other things but not this, not that.
Written and illustrated by Güzin Ayan
A soul ending a soul ending but always? never, i said— forgiveness naught forgotten; the righteous lingering shine of who we were, what will— but never? always, i said— timid squashed fervent lest vermin take the cellar scurry through the walls, and chew the cables apart. but why? purpose be holy— override mortal intuition of what happiness is meant— until your atoms gravitate towards the present you fit more fully into life: a soul absent as it grows into another. Gavin Latham
P.S. For this short story I’m inspired by ‘A soul ending’, a poem written by Gavin Latham, who kindly shared it with me. He is an educator and a writer located in Netherlands. I think this poem could be a great inspiration for people who struggle juggling between two worlds like life and death; career and ambitions; homesickness and adventure, etc. The list might go on and on. I once more thank him for sharing it with me.