I’ve wondered what it is to trust everything that falls from the skies since I read the first page of The Bastard of Istanbul. 'Thou shall not curse what falls from the above' I repeat it to myself when I’m walking home in an ice cold weather, knowing the burdens I have to lift and it starts raining. Cold water splashing against my jacket, dripping down my neck, numbing my hands, making my hair stick against my face and I look up saying 'Thou shall not curse, what falls from the above.' The same rain was a blessing in the city I grew up in, my hometown; where the winds bringing the rain are celebrated just as much as the birth of a son. And thus, seeing the jolly laughters it brings with itself in one part of the world, I can’t curse it for bringing gloomy hours into another. 'Thou shall not curse what falls from the above.'
But more often than not, this thought slips my mind whenever I’m cursing myself in the silent corners of my heart about the art I’m unable to produce, the words I’m unable to scribble. My tendency to offer words to my feelings and everything I see was never my own, just like everything divine, it came from the skies too. But when it brings me pain I forget to remind myself the very same thing, I forget that whenever a problem befalls on me, it fell from the skies. I cannot sob over it in the ocean of worthlessness anymore.