Ripples in the Water (Escape to Istanbul, 1)

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Extract from chapter: Escape to Istanbul
Written: August, 2010

It’s funny how you can be surrounded by people and yet feel so lonely. Funnier still that you can be on vacation, with no worries in the world, and yet feel such a sense of melancholy and longing that you think that your soul aches. Aches for the person that you know is no longer there, for moments that simply cannot exist, and to share thoughts that you know can never be shared. When every part of your conscious brain has deciphered that something is not good for you – has not been good to you – you still long for that person with parts of your body that remain indescribable.

In ways that are indescribable. As I sit here in a small hotel in Antalya, listening again to the call to prayer on the one hand, and to some slow English music on the other (some cover version of Mariah Carey, followed closely on its heels by Andrea Bocelli); feeling the intense heat seep into every pore of my body, leaving me feeling cooked and yet somehow closer to nature; feeling the warmth close in around me and wrap me up as my outer skin seeps with sweat which is somehow legitimized here. Sitting in a small courtyard, underneath a fruit tree, with no residents but myself as the afternoon has turned to evening, just me and my trusted laptop and the intense desire to portray some of my thoughts onto paper and transgress into the past. As I sit here with a vodka in one hand (feeling the effects of a third drink, knowing full well that it is intoxicating my body far quicker in this oppressive heat) and a cigarette in the other, I think of what could have been – and what should have been. And yet again, I wonder what it really was. What it really was. A figment of one’s imagination, a play with a tragic ending or just a comedy of errors?

I sit here and wonder why I recognise every song, from the English to the Arabic to the lounge – as if in this moment, all of the music is being played for my ears only but not at my request. I wonder if you are thinking about me – do you find yourself gripped with such heartache at the most inconvenient and inconceivable moments, gripped so hard that it feels as though your throat is restricting and you can feel your eyes welling with so many unspent tears – tears you didn’t think you had room for anymore. Such melancholy that you can feel it shrouding your soul and you wonder if everybody around you can see or sense it? I wonder if you feel that too?


Submitted: April 21, 2012

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