Abstract :
After a while, my hand began to write despite myself. Or it believed it was writing what appeared on the paper. Every word, every sentence, every thought and every feeling took shape independently of my brain, which perceived and understood them only after the fact. I was merely a passive participant in what was unfolding. I eventually assume these outpourings must be flowing from my mind, but cannot sustain this assumption for long. By the time my brain thinks, ‘If indeed so,’ my pen has already scrawled new words. This time, I try to make sense of both my thought process and writing. Soon I find myself focused again on deciphering the writing alone. I try to remember my thoughts from a moment ago, and recall my initial assumption … Meanwhile, the writing continues non-stop. I conclude that it has a life of its own. All I can do is read …
I cannot believe that I have drafted the words on the page, which stare at me mercilessly. Even as the teardrops falling from my eyes smudge the ink, the words go on tormenting me, like children who continue their cruel abuse of their mother even after she begins to weep. Itʹs too late for regret. Now that theyʹve sprung into being, now that youʹve brought them into existence. Erasing can bring nothing but guilt. (Cem Mumcu, June 2004)
