This long story was written without facing the facts in large houses which all the tricks had been living behind back doors of the rooms . Some things have no reason to exist in life, some want real things as scared of all dreamy air flying around real life like a secret fog that only odds are able to see. The dreamy things which are called “nonsense and irrelavant ” make the realist ones who love money and power incredibly coward rabbits because loss of the contol cause them to be invisible . The story teller lives with words, sentences and paragraphs which are called worthless as they have no place in business life in the skyscrapers. Someone should move in a quite place which is abondened , someone like a storyteller. Before beginning to write all about the main secret story, I wanted to take my raincoat and go away but the damnation already made me a storyteller once.
I always confuse numbers with nightmares. Whenever something is out of the real life but belong to your own spirit , there is always something to count like men jumping the barriers which are as endless in sweating. There always exist three kinds of lies ; simple lies, complicated lies and the strongest one- Damned Lies! One day in the south part of the city , I was almost shouting out my story from an art magazine to all our relatives and neighbours. It was sort of being alone as a vertical line and just to mug around familiar faces and terraces. We all gathered around a round table about fifteen people, it was a huge table, which was in the middle of the yard among white roses and more kinds of flowers that I had never known and never aimed at learning , and I was reading or shouting my story called “Disappearance” thanks to my uncle who just came from South Africa trip and his brother’s (that is my father) heavy psychological press on me . I was the monkey which was chosen for this night to be popular in the neighbourhood. I was lucky.
When I left the night with white roses out and tried to hide myself under my quilt, I had laothed my own story “Disappearance”. It was so artificial that reminded me the day which I became a quince by wearing a yellow sack in the week of domestic goods in the primary school. I was reading a poem called “quince”, loudly. Life wasn’t always a chain of choices. I was sitting on a kid chair covered with cartoon characters , my feet weren’t stepping on the floor, if I had sat on the end of the chair I could have stepped on the floor but then I felt under the weather.This was a detailed sitting style -Innocent and need to be protected. A long and quiet childhood wasted away in pink losing dreams on a chair with mickey mouse. My uncle just stood up and began to clapp and the others joined to that serious family ceremony by louder clapping. “Great!” and again they all agreed and clapped enthusiastically. I am not really sure whether they’ve still gone on clapping or not but I am definitely sure that I still hear all the clapping at my ears in all my quiet life- I have no doubt ,I am both alone and crowded.
I didn’t have any idea if it was more than a nightmare but I have still had the same pain in me. I just tumbled out of my bed and watched myself. I began to behave like a monkey and gabble near to a monkey while I was clapping me enthusiastically. This was the image of being a monkey- A nameless monkey is reading her story called “Disappearance” to odds and ends loudly. An interesting idea just occured to me ; working as a monkey in a circus – A monkey yelling her stories and whenever the story finishes she bows and greets all the audiences respectfully.Unfortunately, because there is no work for monkeys like that in a circus, again I am still a jobless monkey storyteller. I may satisfy my desire as a guest monkey by reading the stories in our garden , even in other stupid neighbours’ houses and again to odds and ends. There could be a circus chance in near future if I am lucky enough.What an enjoyable life .
Time began to corroborate my thoughts, the following morning, our German next door neighbours Arnold and Ilka, who heard the sounds of the story I was reading loudly around the neighbourhood and in the yard, were impressed by the clapping sounds and invited over me for telling a story. I was the lucky monkey. I’ve never wanted to hurt them and accepted their invitation immediately. It could be a good reference for me and my stories may have had the chance to be popular all around the world and made me an international well-known monkey. The rest of it was easier, when I go overseas, getting better jobs in big and famous circuses would be inevitable. I was in a good humor now.Nobody could make me worried about nicknack. I was Arnold’s story- teller then. As I haven’t known German, firstly I was reading and later his wife Ilka, who knows Turkish a little , was translating it and they were both laughing ,sprightly. I was unaware of the fact that I was writing funny things until that day. Actually, I had also begun to have fun quite a lot.
I was reading my stories to Arnold regularly every week and was very successful at making laugh him thanks to his wife’s translations. I hadn’t intended to entertain someone while I had been writing my stories but the pitiful mood of Arnold, who was having fun with Ilka’s wrong translations and began addicted to my stories slowly in time, showed me the heavy cost of being a monkey. Arnold’s expectations were surpassing my dreams and if I didn’t get rid of my passions of being an international monkey , my dissapearences could be increased. A night that I couldn’t stand to deceive myself more , I took the time to my childhood and began to cry in the middle of reading my story and Arnold looked astonished and embrassed who was again laughing because he was used to laughing. I made my crying more and more powerful to enjoy my victory against these two German neighbours and watch their defeated faces as sobbing and sobbing. I guess, I was the one who enjoys crying as it is usual in my country while it was quite the contrary in their hometown. I had known well that to overdo crying might make me far away to be persuasiveness according to impressions gained in my childhood and shaking confidence was the last thing I wanted to do. Trust was inevitable value in every kind of relation, even between a story teller and a story listener.
I implied that I have no more strength to stand Arnold’s unduly laughings because his wife Ilka had been translating wrongly since beginning while I was sniffing as wearing a face of coldblooded storyteller. They seemed immensely sad. While Ilka was caressing my head, she was telling me that she would be more careful about translating and keep a dictionary around the story and if needed she could skip the parts causing Arnold to laugh a lot which drove me mad. It was totally meaningless for me to continue talking. Silence was better but , I began to laugh involuntary, even die laughing and oddly enough, dear two German story lover neighbours joined in laughing with me right away. That night I decided they were definitely fair-weather friends and laughing was the principal activity , the gist of stories. Sometimes , I agree with them it was sure easier than thinking.
They went to their hometown for Christmas holiday a week later. I missed them a lot. Actually, I felt lonely. I planted new stories in the meantime , I even extravagated to fall in love with my own fictions. It seems that being a monkey was really delighting. I thought I missed even their laughters. One understands the value of something when he loses it. If they had been with me, I would have shared my stories even superficial but enjoyed myself. Daytimes were passing quickly but as I was close to darkness, I couldn’t bear to spend nights usual and lonely , they should have been lived gorgeously. I wasn’t sure of what I was indeed hunting for but all my nights turned into an unknown expectation feeling to meet it suddenly , at any moment of night hours.It may be thought that I was revelling it. To be timed to hopes were increasing my vitality. Furthermore I was attached to nights for dear life passionately. I was waiting sunset firstly and then all the stars to count and follow the phases of the Moon to prove that I was mad. I was gathering evidences from the dark blue sky late time. In cloudy or rainy daytimes , time was passing well, too. Ones who can’t see the sky where they lie down, everymen , never know the joy of falling asleep by counting the stars and falling ones. The darkness and obscurity captured me to deep sleeping.
While the night was spreading in me , my own scream was jarring in quiteness. Dear Arnold’s hands were wandering around my brown long hair and took me a spookish big forest. Arnold had a heavy pressure on me – my long-held fears and doubts. He was strong enough to trail me everywhere even I never wanted. I was both in the middle of the night and ultima thule. I had no idea where I was and how everything happened so quickly. It was dragging me to deep odyssey and infinite questions which have more than one answer- probability, non-existence, suspicion…I was going out at midnights even I was scared of darkness and streets at late time and I was trying to find out evidences that demonstrate my existence at the daytime , I was only awake at darkness with deep breathing. I was sometimes in front of skyscrapers, sometimes in the middle of abondened inns, and all uphil old roads…Stone houses, wooden houses, narrow sidestreets, cobblestone pavements, arabic signs, english street names, Turkish baths…So meaningless, incompatible places…I belonged to no city, no streets, no home… I wasn’t somewhere I knew , worse I was nowhere. This was the price of being a story-teller… I was wondering if I was in walking dream or walking real streets…
The jungle with sorceries was only a nightmare, Arnold, my brown long hair, all weird places, they were long-abandoned roads which no one have passed for years…I was only a miserable witness of time and the story which made us addicted to each other with curiosity and a little doubt. There was nothing that I wished. All my intend is to be a witness to my real soul and maybe when I learn the fact, objecting to it with all my soul and body shouting miles away ” I am not what I am !” . Who knows ? Arnold and Ilka…I realised that they were not my real friends, I was not ready to leave them at that time, though. I was lonely enough to be in nightmares. Arnold, Ilka and others want to listen to happy ending stories, funny things or every time optimistic characters. Is life really like that? I can’t believe how they want only good things and pretend there is no badness in life. Arnold and Ilka have never had bad days, no accidents, no operations, no bankruptcy, no family lost…They were the good man and good woman in life who want always smile and laugh at everything by being positive even they are lost in my story which is written with both dreams and nightmares with damn.
I guess, only the ones who have luck live happily. I don’t want to hear the nonsense that one must create his own luck. These people who always say be positive salad are the really lucky ones in life like millionaires, heirs, kingpins , beautiful ladies and handsome guys. If you have a rich friend , you may find a good job easily. I am the friend of Arnold and Ilka but not many people know them in this country, so this friendship doesn’t work for me to find more and more story-lovers. I was walking around crowded places like flea markets, bazaars, stalls in open markets, squares and every place which one similar to me may wander around at the same time, at the right place. If I find someone who as me, I will feel better in the rest of my life. I am not the only one who writes nonsense stories and read them only to her two faithful and passionate readers all around the world. Two is a bigger number than one, so I must be happy like Polyanna. The bad thing is that Arnold and Ilka are still in their hometown and they might deceive me with another German storyteller in long time. They had better come back. I need two more faces listening to my nonsense fiction and I am bored of my own face reading in the mirror. My silly stories are valuable and meaningful only with Arnold and Ilka.