--grains of sand--

The desire to explain oneself never really fades. I want to be known, to be understood.

Yes—by you. By “you” I mean the one who stands opposite the “I.” I don’t want to say “you” as in “you all.” I’d rather call you “you,” and myself “I,” so that we can talk more easily—just the two of us, the one who writes and the one who reads. I will write everything; you will read everything. It sounds like a fair deal, doesn’t it? Yet it isn’t. While you get to know me, I will be deprived of knowing you. You will want to speak of yourself at times, but our positions won’t allow that. It will hurt us both—you, for not being able to say, and me, for not being able to understand. Equal, then, in our deprivation. Perhaps that’s our justice. I do love justice.

What I look like doesn’t matter right now. Forget it. Like any other ordinary person, I have hands, arms, eyebrows, eyes. I could describe them, yes, but it wouldn’t help you know me. If I told you the color of my eyes, could you guess how I look when I look at something? You couldn’t. When, at what, and how I look—you’d have to see it. And seeing isn’t only done with the eyes. So perhaps you could see my gaze without looking. Would you like that—to see without looking?

Then let me begin. I’d like to start from the inside. From within, toward without. Because “within” is essence.

Let’s start with my mind—one of my dearest things. Though I must warn you: I have many dear things, so I don’t know when this description will end. For now, that’s all I know. And when I know, you’ll know too, because I’ll tell you. I like to be known.

My mind is always blurred, like a glass full of sand that’s constantly being stirred. I must tell you there’s a difference between being stirred from within and from without. When someone else stirs it, the sand quickly finds a new order and settles again. But when the stirring begins inside, each grain scatters differently; it takes longer to clear. How hard it is to settle then—you might know it, perhaps you do. And I can only show you what I manage to lift out from that blur. Then we can look at each grain together, describe what we see, and try to understand it. Once we try to understand, it means we are already understanding. Though not together—each on our own. Even if we were together, wouldn’t our understandings still differ? So being together or apart makes no difference. Our distance has lost its meaning—good, one less burden to carry. Still, I have doubts about our agreement. Can we even understand that we understand? Maybe not. But I’d like to think we can. I don’t know. I rarely do. Knowing—whatever that means—always feels difficult to me. Maybe it’s easy for you. What were we talking about, anyway? I told you I’m blurred. I talk a lot, even when there’s no subject. But I never talk for nothing; I speak in long, winding ways, which of course makes it longer still. See? I’ve done it again. Though it’s the first time between us, I always do it. So, here’s me introducing myself: I digress.

I hope my blurriness doesn’t overwhelm you. If we’re going to look at each grain of sand, I’ll need some of your time. You’ll give me your time to listen, and I’ll give you mine to tell. What will you gain, then? I’ll keep that to myself for now. I just hope I won’t regret keeping it. Anyway, no more digressions: I’m blurred.

I take pride in my blurriness. Sometimes I’m grateful that I’m not crystal clear. Clarity often means emptiness, doesn’t it? How could anyone live like that? It’s absurd. A human must be mixed, tangled, blurred—so that now and then they can become clear. But only now and then. Those rare moments of clarity never last long, don’t worry.

Note: This English version of “Kum Taneleri” (“Grains of Sand”) was translated with the assistance of ChatGPT, remaining faithful to the original rhythm and flow of the text. The translation seeks to preserve not only meaning, but the tone, warmth, and introspective cadence of the Turkish original. However, as with all translations, a certain barrier remains—the one created by language itself.

2023, Eindhoven