On Creation and Silence.

Hayv Kahraman — Look Me in the Eyes.

It is has been a minute, well, it has been years. But, the heart wants what the heart wants, and yearning will always find it’s way to echo you home—at first, quietly, then loudly. I haven’t written much in the past few years, if at all. I, often, found myself lost, suffocated and unsure what it is that stopped these hands from turning to the very art form that kept me previously going. In reality, there was far too much going on, and too little time, capacity and space for my hands to create what felt lodged firmly in my throat. Yet, here it is, having yearned for it, I have found myself back home; amongst words and letters, amongst notes and books. Home.

When I think on the years that have passed, I barely can make sense of what came and went. I felt disconnected, frazzled and foggy. And as much as I’d like to have a clear answer, it feels of very little use to focus on that which demands to be misunderstood. To waste the journey to clarity. Perhaps, there is wisdom also in that—in not knowing, in not figuring it out. There are reasons and words I can equate to near enough the entirety of my twenties: spirals, exhaustion, depression and dissociation. And yet, there were pockets of joy and experiences, which, whilst I may not be able to pinpoint exactly, know, exist(ed). It is strange, to be writer, to know deeply, firmly, yet find your words fail you, to have memory swiped from you. It is no easy to truth, to realise that silence is also part of the process, not only orally but written. It is as much the creative process, as is the physical manifestation of the craft. Not all is lost, muted perhaps, but not lost. It is there, in you, in me. Art is resilience, it builds patience and aspirations as much as it builds dreams and kindness. Art, in whatever form; written in this case, has provided much to be longed for, it is in it that we find the edges of existence becoming untethered and bemused. It enables you to pull on the singular thread and undo all that you’ve created, and do so earnestly and honestly. It demands no perfection, albeit we do.

I have come to learn that to surrender is to invite in authenticity, and to invite authenticity in means vulnerability is near by and often, hanging of its’ tail coat are fear and shame. I have grappled with the latter for majority of my life, at no expense other than mine. Rationally, intellectually, academically I understood the barriers, the self sabotage and the then unwavering patterns that far removed me from my craft; however, it is only when emotionally and spiritually I understood the ramification, I was able to reach for my craft once more. It has taken years, and often the impatience in me wishes it didn’t, but it is those years that quietly worked on undoing my tethered and isolated edges. To welcome in life’s grandiose fluidity and allow it to move through me, to write with it in mind, to engage with the granular work before welcoming the sharing of my centre.

Hayv Kahraman — Gut Feelings.

I have come into my thirties on my knees, scraped and bruised but also, with a heart full of life, a soul unbound by the mediocrity of life and a mind that understands consistency belongs to your creativity as much as resilience and malleability are owed to your mind. I have come into my thirties, thirsty; for more life, more words, and more joy. I have come into my thirties with a gratitude that despite the years gone by, words and books quietly accompanied me, waited patiently. I have come into my thirties with a renewed sense of resolution, of wanting to extend grace and kindness no longer to just those around me, but to myself. I have finally not only come to understand that to exist is to be inherently worthy but that to raise this as a beacon of hope to others does not exempt you from working to imbed yourself firmly within that equation as well. I have learnt to stand up, finally— and to do so diligently, even if some days feel pitiful.

It has demanded me to engage with the “soft animal of your [my] being” as Mary Oliver once wrote, and appreciate that perhaps Ocean Vuong held the key to forging ahead. For, “loneliness is still time spent with the world”, even if in silence. To forge ahead is life’s continuation in it’s entirety; understanding that silence is vocal within the ouroboros too, and speaks to experience as much as words do. We cannot escape that which demands to be felt, even if we dance on the graves’ of our senses. Eventually, liminal spaces be it emotionally or otherwise, have a way of etching their discomfort into the crevices of our minds, a slow burner entrapping you. Yet, as time continues to tick—you learn that to create, is to brave the past and settle it into your heart’s centre, focusing on the future nestled softly between your palms.

In the end, we hear the echoes loudly, inescapably and feel it bone deep. We yearn and yearn, and wander either blindly or full of promise, home.