We live in a universe of vanishings—not from the instant we open our eyes to this world’s miracle, but from the moment we first feel our bodies truly our own. From the moment we lean on that hesitant “I” we often hesitate to name.
Sometimes we call it conscience, sometimes our other side. Occasionally, we reject it outright—“This is not me.” Sometimes, we even dare to name it the devil within.
No matter what words we cloak our feelings in, the true journey is the one with that “I.” We may change cities, countries, and consume hours and time itself. We may even travel through different climates. Yet that mysterious presence remains with us—it never abandons.
Our minds sometimes deceive us. We are caught in whirlpools, trapped in turbulence. Time becomes meaningless; places grow blurry. We feel our breath stop, we scream in silence. Our perception of time and space fades away.
And then—the whirlpool ceases, turbulence ends. What follows is a deep emptiness. Like a plane losing altitude uncontrollably, we fall into an endless abyss.
Some rebuild themselves on the foundation of faith. Others take refuge in new dreams, sometimes recklessly. For some, deepening sorrow feels like solace; for others, multiplying joy may illuminate a moment. Our search for peace intensifies in these moments. Yet what we truly desire is reunion—with the “I” we lost in the whirlpool. Deep within, we seek it once more.
No matter how fierce the storm’s breath, no matter how far we drift from that “I,” no matter how much we transform, what we truly flee from is the terrifying vanishing itself.
As we rebuild every feeling, reshape our days, and confide again with our inner “I,” what it whispers softly is the cold vanishing that freezes us like icy rivers.
Beyond how we feel, beyond the language that adorns our breath, lies the vanishing we always try to forget.
We relentlessly try to assign meaning to our actions, always chasing a new beginning. The feeling that “now, my real life begins” fills us—yet this is an illusion.
No matter how our feelings resonate, no matter how our daily lives tip the scales of time, neither our search for meaning nor the feeling that fills our hearts will ever end.
Even if we call it repentance, or try fresh starts, even if we cling to hope that life will change—within us, the “I” whispers a chilling truth that envelops our entire being:
“Everything will surely come to an end.”
In this life made of dust and traces, the most distant yet certain feeling we sense deep in our bones is the vanishing itself. We try to drown this truth in the light of our feelings.
In a universe where our names will no longer be spoken after three generations, why, with this cold truth standing by our side, do we insist on exaggerating our fleeting existence?
Mutlu Akgün
Istanbul
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