I don’t know what to do with my life. I don’t know what my “calling” is. I don’t feel a pull towards a certain achievement I need to complete before I die.

I don’t feel like my life serves a great function in the universe’s puzzle. I don’t see this as pessimistic or nihilistic. I see this from a point of joy.

I don’t matter in the span of the universe, but I still exist. I am passionate, I am alive.

As I observe people, I realize that it’s rather easy to lose yourself in the pursuit of your calling, whether that’s materialistic or spiritual.

We spend our whole lives trying to find this “self”, collecting these fragments, pieces of a greater whole we never quite see;

pressing our fists shut so not a single one falls.

But as soon as we let a single muscle loose, the wind swipes them all.

If we can so easily lose this “self”, how volatile is it?

People lose themselves trying to follow many paths.

Love, God, Success, Happiness.

How big and divine can that thing be, to deserve your whole being?

I have my passions, but no single path defines where I land.

I don’t know what my life is supposed to be…

and I don’t intend to find out.

If you’ve come this far, thank you.

I am turning 25 this year, and like most 25-year-olds, I’ve been desperately trying to sculpt my future. I recently graduated and started working a full-time tech job a year ago.

Every day I wake up and question if this is the life I want to live for the rest of my days.

The answer is simple: Of course not. Who truly wants to dedicate their whole life, 9 hours a day working for someone else? I know it’s a privilage to have this job, but it’s not my “dream”.

But what do I actually want? What is my dream? I honestly don’t know. Some days I love my job, some days I hate it. Sometimes I love waking up and getting to live, and sometimes... not so much.

I feel crushed under the pressure to decide what to do with my whole life, when I haven’t even lived through most of it. What if one day I turn 60 and regret every choice I’ve ever made?

Why do I have to decide now?

This comic was my way of letting go of that pressure. I hope it brings a bit of peace to anyone walking through the same maze.

If you like whatt you see, consider following my art account on instagram @atlasdoesart

I forgot what freedom feels like. I want to be as free as we were before they grabbed us by our wrists, locked us all in cages, and squeezed our imaginations into a box. And yet, I don’t even know what this word means anymore.

Freedom.

Playing in the mud, kissing frogs, and eating grass. Lying on the ground and crying. The fact that our actions didn’t need to contain any logic. Or to serve a purpose, or make money.

Our minds—freedom, free from all standards, concepts, rules, and jealousy.

I forgot what freedom feels like. I don’t know what I’m supposed to look for. I don’t know where to go, but I want to go far away from here. And I can’t learn that without hitting the road.

A word called freedom—now, it’s nothing but a handful of letters. No one is free. Just cage upon cage upon cage. But I want to be free. Free from everything.

Free from all boundaries. From all limits. From all norms. Money. Gender. Standards. National borders. Bombs. Wars. Resources. Technology. Progress. From constantly feeling the need to catch up. The need for acceptance. From being loved. From loving. Fitting in. Being understood. Sleeping. Eating. Deadlines. The news. Walls. Roads. Passports. Airplanes. Cars. From clothes. From brushing my teeth. From expectations. From cages. Chains. From identities. From memories. People. Trauma. Grief. From responsibilities.

I just want to live. Without giving anyone an account. To truly live.

To experience. To feel. To try. Without feeling trapped. I want to truly experience my humanity, in its absolute entirety. I want to see, hear, taste, touch, smell.

To speak, to shout, to whisper. To jump, to run, to walk. To be me. To be me in a way that no one has defined, no one can define, and no one has a say in.

Right now, the distance our minds, our imaginations, our souls can reach feels so limited. It’s far away, and it cannot see past the fog.

It is so limited that I can’t even imagine what lies in the whiteness outside the cage. Just another cage. And another cage right behind it.

And yet at times this silence feels so clear and loud,
Like a baby’s laugh, or a choir’s crowd.
Then I stop and gaze deep into your eyes,
My soul awakens, my whole universe begins to rise.

I see the child on the ground, covered in dirty mud,
Under the pouring rain, holding a fresh and blooming bud.
Too scared to jump over the swinging rope so high,
Too shy to speak, trapped by the fears that linger by.

A hundred times she fell, bled from here and there,
A heavy ache would make her little face feel so bare.
With hesitations, came the tears she could not hide,
As her darkest fears took root deep down inside.

Destiny chained those pieces side by side,
I walked across them all, burning on this painful ride.
Lost at times, I asked directions to anyone around,
Fate had spun its webs already, by which I was found.

I swear I did not know where the road would lead or end,
But every fiber of my being, every broken trend,
Every injury and every tear,
Every hesitation and every fear,
The universe chained those pieces true,
Just so I could find my way to you.

The driving thought behind this poem is the human need for retrospective justification and the desire to believe that our deepest pains, childhood traumas, and lonely wanderings weren't just random, cruel coincidences, but necessary steps on a path leading to somewhere beautiful.

It stems from the realization that when you finally find a love that makes you feel completely safe, your entire personal history gets recontextualized. Healing doesn't mean erasing the wounded child inside us, it means finding someone who looks at that child's scars and makes the journey worth it.

Ultimately, it is built on a fatalistic philosophy that the universe is a master blacksmith, forging our individual heartbreaks into a bridge that finally allows two souls to cross over and meet.

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Struggling to breathe, my head against his chest,
The hero stands determined to deny me any rest.
Heracles has an ancient hold,
His strength could break a creature so bold.
As I struggle to fight into the endless night,
He proves once more his godly, cosmic might.
To bring a shameful end to my feral reign,
My three necks are punished, bound within a choking chain.
He drags me to the land, each step tightens his grip,
The soil is wet with my dire saliva drip.

Where the venomous drops fall, an awful crop grows,
The purple petals bloom as the root of death holds.
Wolfsbane rises from the tears of my pain,
The mortals will suffer as their existence is their bane.
I am forced to bow with the disgrace of my doom,
While the living will choke upon my lethal perfume.

I was born from terror, from Ekhidna’s dark womb,
Chosen to guard the wailing of the underground tomb.
One would give my heads of three a fleeting gaze,
Before they crumbled beneath the dread of the maze.
My sacred name was whispered, never spoken aloud,
For it could unleash a curse that would make the proudest shout.

Approaching my domain, they could hear a hymn,
Before they faced my eyes, menacing and grim.
For I guard the realm where the deadmen weep,
And the underworld has cliffs that are deep deep deep.
My grand roar would echo on Acheron’s shore,
A final warning before they met with my bloody gore.
There I stood tall, at Hades’ iron gate,
Where souls crushed beneath the weight of eternal fate.

Yet I was kind to those who accepted their ends,
With wagging tails, the triple hound was a friend.
For their final journey, I was exceptionally tame,
I would hide their sins behind my damned name.
But should a phantom turn in desperate fight,
The welcoming beast became a fatal bite.
For those who turn to flee back to the Stygian sea,
My jaws would clench to trap them in eternal agony.

Until the son of Zeus was given his twelfth labor,
When Hades granted him my head as a favor.
As his bare hands met my fury in this final task,
I was defeated by a grip… until I could no longer gasp.

This poem is written from the perspective of Cerberus, the three headed hound of the ancient Greek Underworld. Rather than portraying him as a mindless monster, I wanted to explore his ancient lineage, his dual nature as both a comforting guide and a brutal guard, and the humiliation of his defeat during Heracles’ final labor.

Born from Ekhidna, the "Mother of All Monsters" (a creature half-beautiful woman and half-deadly serpent), Cerberus was destined to guard the gates of the Underworld. His true name was treated as a curse, to speak it aloud was believed to invite misfortune.

When mortal souls die, they first gather on the near bank of the Acheron, the "River of Woe”. As they wait for Charon’s boat, the first sound that greets them is Cerberus’s triple throated roar echoing across the black water from the far side. Stationed directly at Hades’ gates, Cerberus stands as the physical embodiment of eternal fate. Beyond him lie the abysses of the afterlife.

Cerberus was not aggressive to the dead who accepted their fate. To the souls stepping off Charon's boat who willingly embraced the afterlife, Cerberus acted as a loyal hound, wagging his serpent-headed tail, lowering his heads, and submissively guiding them past the gates. He absorbed their mortal shame into his own terrifying reputation. However, if a phantom panicked, regretted their death, and tried to sprint back to the safety of the Stygian waters, Cerberus’s docility instantly vanished. The friendly hound became a thrashing monster of teeth and gore, crushing the rebellious spirits in his jaws.

When King Eurystheus demanded the impossible, that Heracles descend into Hell and bring Cerberus up to the land of the living. Hades agreed to let the hero try, but under one condition, Heracles had to defeat the beast using no weapons, only his bare hands. Heracles then locks the beast in an unbreakable chokehold and keeps his hold for days and months, until the hound can no longer struggle. For the first time in eternity, the warden of Hell is helpless, his three necks bound by iron chains, his breath slowly cut off by the demigod's crushing strength.

As Heracles drags the choking beast out of the underworld and forces him into the sunlight of the upper world, Cerberus is overcome with fury and shame. He salivates wildly in his distress.

According to Ovid’s Metamorphoses, wherever Cerberus’s toxic saliva struck the soil, the earth was poisoned. From those wet drops, a deadly plant sprouted: Aconite (commonly known as Wolfsbane).

This is the ultimate spite of the warden, even in his absolute defeat, his pain births a lethal, purple-flowered poison into the mortal world. Long after Heracles drags him back down to Hell, the living will continue to choke on his poison, ensuring that Cerberus remains a bane to humanity forever.

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To grow up is being taught to be ashamed of our own freedom. We become trapped in the grey as we lose touch with that wild and honest child within us, when we saw the world exactly as it was, before we were introduced to words like “utility” or “consequence”. Childhood was the only time we were truly independent, profoundly indifferent to the world’s expectations, and spiritually bare.

I have to admit, even though they can be know-it-alls, gross, messy, unpredictable, and sometimes even downright feral, I love children. I love connecting with them and talking to them. I love conversing with their thoughts, which the modern world hasn’t yet managed to pollute or restrict. I love how my little cousins always remember the games we played, how they wonder about the “why” behind everything, and how they never stop questioning until something truly makes sense in their minds.

I admire the child’s mind; I envy their limitless creativity. I miss that independence we had as children, that beautiful indifference to the world. We would roll around on the ground and see no issue with crying for hours to get what we wanted, until the world taught us to be ashamed of wanting things.

I love their wildness because that wildness holds a pure honesty, not yet forced into a mold. We adults forgot how to be honest while learning how to be polite.

We used to believe we could heal injured grasshoppers found in the garden by putting them in jars with tiny scraps of leaves and water in a plastic bottle cap. We didn’t know that hugging a snake was dangerous or that rolling in the mud could make us sick. The world was an endless playground, open to every discovery. Everything we did was just a game. Making “soup” for my father using toilet water and lentils from the lowest shelf I could reach, or hiding the car keys so my mother couldn’t go to work, it was all a game. We didn’t think about the consequences; we only thought about how much fun we would have doing it.

For us adults, time is just a calendar nearing its end. For children, time is an eternity to get lost in.

As we grew up, the world taught us that our actions have consequences, and that these consequences are more important than anything else in life. There were rules. When learning cursive in primary school, it was clear exactly how slanted the letters should be; if I wanted to write from top to bottom instead of left to right, it meant I wouldn’t get a star on my homework. Shouting in the hallway or climbing on desks to play “wizards” surely had much more serious consequences than just annoying the teacher, and so it was forbidden.

I was a child once, too. And I must admit, I was perhaps a very annoying one. Luckily, my family never saw this as a problem. They supported my imagination and creativity, seeing them as a lever rather than an obstacle. But not the whole world was like them. For some teachers, taking orderly notes in class was far more useful than the caricatures I doodled in the margins of my notebook. While I believe with all my heart that education is beneficial, even learning information you won’t use in your future profession, isn’t there a way to do this without pruning our imagination?

That’s why I want to write children's books. For me, this is not just a choice of genre; it is my way of defending their colors against this grey world.

The truth is, as we grew up, we didn’t just learn rules, we suffered our greatest loss when curiosity was replaced by fear. As children, we looked into a hole wondering what was inside; now, we fear what might crawl out of it. Our imagination is trapped between these walls of fear. Through the stories I want to write, I want to crack those walls. I want to create a space where children can trade their fears for curiosity and their anxieties for play.

Because the world can only be repainted by the dreams of unafraid minds.

We mistake wearing masks for “growing up.” I want to write to protect that space where masks aren’t yet worn, where emotions are lived in their rawest, truest form.

When my sister and I were little, my father would tell us stories he made up before we went to sleep, because he didn’t want to limit us with the roles in traditional tales (yes, he was a visionary). Muscular princesses going to war with their dwarves, cunning queens finding ways to poison the witch... And when I woke up in the morning and scribbled one of my father’s stories on paper with my crayons, my mother never forgot to hang my “masterpiece” on the fridge to show how much she valued that scrap of paper. Thanks to them, perhaps my imagination, which the modern world tried so hard to blunt, remained a little sharper.

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And you know what? Right now, our world is in terrible shape. It’s shit. Due to a lack of optimism, imagination, and kindness in adults, our world is moving closer every day to becoming a grey piece of trash. Because of people who don’t know how to value humans, animals, or nature; people whose child souls were killed by dark adult spirits, the rest of us have to suffer.

I truly believe that our future, not just the future of humanity, but the future of the entire world and every living creature on it, is in the hands of children. They are the ones who will ensure our beautiful planet preserves its beauty (or what’s left of it), who will break centuries of generational trauma, and who will stop the cycle of future generations inflicting pain on one another.

To be honest, I don’t care much for the survival of the human race. If we all vanished at once, if the world restored its own balance and all those ugly footprints we’ve left over the years were erased, if Mother Nature took her well-deserved revenge, I would have no objection. But if we are to continue leaving those footprints, I want us to do it with passion, love, justice, and hope.

Especially in times like these, when the world seems determined to harm children, I believe it is more vital than ever to protect and value them, to make sure no child is robbed of their childhood, and that every child can play with their friends instead of standing in line for food or waking up to the sound of bombs.

We need fairy tales, educational stories, and colorful realms of imagination more than ever. However cliché it may be, the healing of a society begins with the healing of its children. Children need to learn, not how to be quieter, how to take up less space, or how to conform, but how to defend their rights, how to navigate their own minds, and how to project their souls onto the world. They need to learn when to stand tall and when to run with the wind.

I wish to have even a small hand in this progress, even if it affects only one child. Because alongside my mother and father, many authors contributed to me becoming who I am today. I cannot express in words how grateful I am to all of them. I will always remember and cherish deep in my heart how reading those adventure books written by adults for children opened new doors and created new paths in my mind.

I said earlier that I wouldn’t object if Mother Nature took her revenge on us; perhaps writing a children’s book is a way of apologizing to nature. If I can plant a seed in a child’s heart that hugging a tree is not a duty but a necessity, then perhaps there will be a sliver of tenderness left within Mother Nature’s harsh revenge. Perhaps healing children is, in fact, protecting the world from ourselves.

As a final note, I am proud to announce that the first story of this journey is already written. Due to publishing and copyright considerations, I won’t be able to share the full stories or illustrations here for the time being. However, inspired by the incredible support I received when I first announced this project, I am planning to share Substack-exclusive stories and illustrations very soon.

Many of you reached out about your story ideas, which I find incredibly exciting. I would love to collaborate with you! If you have a story in your heart, please feel free to send your ideas to me at:

nature.sprkl@gmail.com

Since I am also working a full-time job, I can’t promise I’ll have a lot of free time, but I would love to discuss your ideas and figure out a schedule together.

Take care, and never lose your inner child.

my mother brought a gift for me,
from gardens where the sun would glow,
to keep me as healthy as can be
and stop the sickness where it grows.

a heavy box full of kiwi,
bittersweet, so tangy and fuzzy.
now it’s looking so strange and eerie,
forgotten in the cabinet, i’m too busy.

i heard a hum and found the root,
though i swore it was nothing grime.
just fruit,
just time.

i know the fruit is there all alone,
resting in the depths of the cabinet.
turning the box into a moldy land unknown,
the toxins spread like a hairy dread.

something inside it knew my name,
a familiar ghost I couldn’t tame.

wondering what's rotten in my chest,
the box gets nasty the more i wait.
an ugly, furred, unwelcome guest,
like the kiwi, abandoned to its fate.

i started forgetting the small things,
the truth that I chose to shun.
but then the ghost of a secret stings,
and they all come back to me, all in one.

as the mold poisons my home,
nothing is left of my mother's treat.
secrets are collected in my tome,
and i am crushed beneath their deceit.

i admit it's time to get rid of this rag,
grasping control with my bare hands,
not sure how much of this i can drag,
the rot will get the attention it demands.

to end winter's long neglect,
to relieve my lingering soul,
i remember the things i failed to protect,
and dare again to feel as whole.

i give the box a sudden shove,
and once it's done, it feels so easy.
i chose myself without remorse,
and the fresh air was quite breezy.

still sometimes i find my mind,
fearing the echoes of the ghost,
but i've left the mold behind,
freed myself from the unwanted host.

when i’m alone, i feel a breath,
of all the years that i have lost.
life is just a dance with death,
but i am me, at any cost.

Most mornings, I wake up to a sense of dread, as if the world is perpetually on the brink of collapse. My digital feed is a grotesque mosaic: one half offers instructions on surviving the apocalypse, while the other predicts the inevitable destruction of my career at the hands of AI. None of it feels quite real.

The world is ending, they say. And when it does, I have no desire to survive in some post-nuclear society. It feels as though the world is slipping through our fingers; nothing is as it’s supposed to be. Everything I see online seems designated either to inject fear into my veins or leave me completely disgusted.

I feel so afraid. Terrified. Because I have so little control over the rest of humanity, and humanity seems so disinterested in its own well-being. It’s as if we want the world to end.

Yet, while most of us are drained of energy, those in power seem fueled by a relentless drive toward destruction.

And I’m angry.

Humanity is acting like an ouroboros, a serpent devouring itself. Nobody even wants to try anymore. We’re running our own planet, our own home, our own children to ruin. Destroying our own existence. We are setting up our own traps and calling it progress.

And by “we”, I don’t mean us, the small folk. I mean those in power, the ones who are supposed to represent us. The ones who make even a skeptic like me understand why conspiracy theories exist. Because sometimes I simply cannot find an explanation for their actions other than pure, distilled cruelty.

And no matter how much we rise up and scream, our voices seem to vanish into the void.

We are the grass where elephants fight.

So, I’m forced to sit and scroll as I watch economic collapse, environmental insanity, and mass murder flicker across the screen. These tragedies were completely preventable, so illogical, inhumane and honestly, diabolical.

Sometimes my mind refuses to register them as reality. I search desperately for proof that things are not as bad as they seem, but always, they turn out to be worse.

My voice has thinned into a whisper because I have been screaming for so long.

I only wanted simple life. Maybe to change careers a few times until I find something that truly made me happy, to not feel guilty about the idea of bringing children into this world. I wanted not to be constantly bombarded with the pain of the world.

I even feel guilty for wanting peace from the comfort of my home, with a warm cup of tea in my hand.

And my heart is in so many pieces because I am deeply in love with this world.

I love living.
I love the heaviness of human emotions and the lightness of a chuckle. I love how compassionate and brutal the wildlife is, and how much of the oceans still remain undiscovered. I love how we have made up traditions like making a wish when a ladybug lands on a sleeve. I love how we hug to borrow warmth from one another. I love the streaks that tears leave on a face. I love how we feel things that make no sense, but they’re ours. I love how we are born and celebrate, and die and grieve.

It hurts so much to see these things vanish; to see how much of humanity is in pain beyond comprehension.

Then the anger returns so fiercely that I can barely think straight. So much of this agony could be prevented. So many souls lost for utter nonsense.

Women and children erased from the earth for simply existing. Men dying while trying to protect their families. Friendships separated, broken, never to return.

I feel completely powerless. Even if I devoted my life to the cause of peace, the rest of the world seems to be devoted to the opposite.

And then comes the sadness.
A deep sadness that we get to exist and we get to hurt each other so severely, against every religion, every philosophy that teaches us not to.

It’s all so absurd. Unreal. Too terrible to be real.

Maybe I could be doing more. I could be more active. I could be one of the activists boarding ships to deliver aid.

But I’m not. Instead I sit with this strange mixture of guilt and helplessness.

I am grieving. Not for the death of one person, but for the death of humanity itself. A mourning for all the possibilities of what could we have been.

I feel like carrying the pain of the entire world on my chest. I’m not complaining, because I only have to feel the weight, while others have to live under the crush of it.

I know I am not alone in this.

This is a collective grief, whether we acknowledge it or not, many of us are carrying it. When we refuse to look at it, it mutates into a surface level anxiety that makes the world feel like it’s constantly ending.

I am grieving for our past.
For our future.
And for every possibility that died before it could bloom.

But I’m hopeful. I’m always hopeful.

Because they can take so much from us, but they cannot take our hope, or our stubborn love for life.

They can destroy cities, rewrite histories, and poison the future.
But they cannot erase compassion.

History has proven something again and again: power can crush bodies, but it struggles to crush conscience.

And as long as we are capable of loving this world, there is still something left to save.

I’ve come to realize that what we are experiencing is a modern haunting. It resembles the five stages of grief.

We move through Denial, scrolling past the horror as if it’s just a glitch in the screen. We spiral into Anger, a white-hot rage at the cruelty of those who pull the strings. We try to Bargain, thinking that if we just sign one more petition or change one more habit, the world might right itself. We sink into Depression, paralyzed by the sheer scale of the suffering. And finally, we reach a hollow Acceptance, not that this is right, but that this is our reality.

I have never known grief of this type before. It is not the sharp, singular loss of one person, but a panoramic mourning. I feel as though I am grieving for all the souls already gone, but also, strangely, for the ones who still stand. I am mourning the living, because we are all walking through a world that feels increasingly like a ghost of what it was meant to be.

Do you think there’s still something left to save?

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hop hop little bunny,
through the grass so green,
the softest little creature
the woods have ever seen.

your fur like snow,
so pretty and so white,
caught the attention of
every mate in sight.

hop hop little bunny,
you move so very sure
your cotton-tail wiggles,
a perfect fluffy lure.

your eyes like jewels
so bright and beady,
caught the attention of,
a man oh so greedy.

hop hop little bunny,
be quick and be as pure,
the pain would be much greater
than what you can endure.

be quick now and sneak,
you’re not one for the weak,
soft feet jumping to the peak,
he couldn’t turn his cheek.

hop hop little bunny,
your trails he can’t track,
when his ugly face shows up
you’re the one to attack.

your fur would be carpet,
dead and on the floor,
or wrapped around the wife’s neck
whom he did much adore.

hop hop little bunny,
move so fast and light,
you dance through the forest
and far out of his sight.

his mouth waters up
to use you as a wrap,
but he trips on a branch
and falls right into the trap.

a wiggle, a twitch and a big, big snap!
all he will bring to the wife
is a handful of scrap!

hop hop little bunny,
don’t beat around the bush.
you’re oh so cunning
would make a wise man blush.

the hunter thinks he’s clever,
a giant know-it-all,
the clash of the steel
is his own wake up call.
but his pride has left him
to a heavy fall,
as he tumbles in the dirt
feeling oh so small!

I wrote this poem to feel like a feminist fable, on how women’s perceived softness is misread as permission. I wanted to question who gets to decide what is “weak”. The bunny is admired, followed and hunted not because it threatens anyone, but just because it’s beautiful and pretty, reduced to fur, a trophy. The hunter’s greed mirrors the world, where men are taught to desire, to take without asking. By turning the hunter into the one who falls, I wanted their entitlement to fall as well. I’m so sick of the traditional narrative of male dominance and female prey.

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We do not see things as they are; we see them as we are.
— Anaïs Nin

Is art for art’s sake, or for society?
Is art for the artist, or for the eyes that behold it?
Does beauty live in the eye of the beholder, or at the very tips of the creator’s fingers?
Is it a confession whispered to the self, or an offering left for strangers’ eyes?

Because no one outside my close circle ever saw my art, I used to feel creating held no real value. Writings that consumed hours of my life, paintings I worked on from sunset until reunion with the sun, poems formed from words the moon whispered into my ear, all of them were trapped like prisoners doomed to yellow and fade between pages, confined behind the bars of a lined notebook. None of them could escape the borders, as if time itself was embarrassed by their invisibility.

But was it truly all for nothing? On the canvas, there was only my heart; the pages were filled only with my words. The need felt instinctive, I burned with the urge to create, to produce, it was the only way I knew how to exist. My slender fingers were made to hold a pen, they learned the weight before they learned anything else; they had no other idea of how to live. What they did best, what they were most proud of, was always creation: dancing in meaningless motions until their joints ached, forming shapes meant to stir something in the viewer. Creation remained the one thing they did with certainty.

Yet there was no viewer. There was only me, and my eyes that could barely see without the help of two pieces of glass. There were loved ones who would compliment my work, only to forget it the next day. Once the notebook closed, their praise, too, was condemned to rot between its pages.

Was art meant for the artist, then? Was this the meaning of my life, to create, endlessly, privately? Creation belonged to God, and a piece of God lived within each of us. Was this the expression of the divine within me? But if that were true, why did I want to explain myself to others through every piece I made? I wanted them to adore it, to perhaps recognize themselves in it. I wanted my work to live on in their minds. But I didn’t know how to speak to others; I had only learned how to speak to myself. My works were nothing more than selfish scribbles. I had all this ability, yet I couldn’t even manage to share it.

One evening, a friend and I were sipping unnecessarily expensive wine in a small, cozy place. As the wine mixed into our blood, our tongues loosened, and our conversation drifted away from everyday troubles into more abstract worlds. Then, from her lips, fell the words that made me want to write this piece: “If you ever stop painting, I’ll beat you up.”

I told her I didn’t think I could ever stop, but I didn’t believe my paintings meant anything. I said I had started keeping a sketchbook to motivate myself, but the last thing I’d managed to draw was just two bugs. That proved nothing, it only showed that I liked colors and could draw a straight line. What I wanted was connection. I wanted people to see themselves when they looked at my work. I wanted to create for people.

What she said next made me realize how selfish I’d been, how narrow my self indulgence was. When I looked at a piece of art, was I thinking about what I felt, or was I trying to empathize with what the artist felt?

As someone who closely followed and deeply appreciated it, she looked not for herself in a piece, but for its creator. After all, even though each of us carries a world within, instead of trying to illuminate just one street of our own small world in every artwork, it felt far more meaningful to seek the hills and seas of the artist’s world. Art, for her, wasn’t about imagining what she would feel in the artist’s place. It was about understanding how the artist felt while creating.

In the end, art was for art’s sake, and art was for society. The two were never separate. An artist does not exist outside the world they live in, not because they are obligated to serve it, but every creation born within a society reaches beyond its maker. Each piece is not only a window into the creator’s inner world; it also holds up a mirror to others.

At our core, we are all the same. We share excitements that quicken our hearts, heartbreaks that ache in our chests, regrets that sizzle within us, and fears that steal our sleep at night. My fear may not be the same as yours; what draws tears from my eyes may cause your sobs. But in essence, in our souls, we are all born, we grow, and we die. Our experiences differ, but when cut, we all bleed red.

And when we empathize with the artist, even if that was never their intention, we are also empathizing with ourselves, glimpsing a hollow within us that we might never have dared to look into if not for that work of art.

I was struggling with my art lately, whether it’s writing, music or painting. I was questioning where I end, and the art begins. This was my attempt to understand art, or if art is truly every only ours.

For whom do you create art?

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When you step outside, what do you notice?

Do you watch your surroundings, trace the path you take? Do you read the graffiti on the trash can you pass every morning on your way to the bus stop? Or do you study the clumps of dried mud on your shoes as you step over the gravel?

Do you stare at that pothole in front of your building, the one the neighbor obsessed with shoes left at doorsteps has reported to the municipality fifty two times, yet still hasn’t been filled? The same wound that slowly fractures the rest of the pavement, forcing you to take long jumps on rainy days just to reach the sidewalk. You could find your way even with your head down, because you know every bump and dip by heart.

But you don’t know which neighbor has flowers on their balcony, they bloom above you, their colors wasted on your lowered gaze.

You’ve never walked this road with your head held high. You lowered your neck, shoulders rounding as if apologizing for their own presence, worried that the street dogs, sweet as they are, might follow you if hunger sharpens them enough to smell the cat food in your bag. You hurried toward the bus stop. Maybe while waiting, you watched the man across the street slowly smoking on his balcony and wished you hadn’t quit. The way he rolled the yellow filter between his fingers, brought it to his lips… you could almost hear the faint crackle at the tip. Then you remembered the awful smell it leaves in your hair, how your cat won’t rub against you when your hands smell like smoke.

Have you ever noticed your surroundings?

Not just the people passing by, but the neighborhood itself, how it smells of fish on Sunday afternoons, as if you’re witnessing a family’s small tradition. Have you noticed how the sun looks white in winter, golden in summer? How cold air feels cleaner, sharper? Do you know what you love and what you hate? You don’t even fully know the route from your apartment to the gym.

But that’s alright. These are not things to know; they are things to discover. You will never fully know anything, and that grants you a freedom you’ll never quite be aware of. You may have an idea of what you want with all your heart, and what makes your stomach turn with disgust. But everything in between, the small things, like never being able to decide whether you like avocado, will line up like the infinite real numbers between two integers. You’ll never know how many of them you’ve already decided on.

It’s enough to think about these things, or realize that you aren’t thinking about them at all. This isn’t about how to discover yourself, how to reach your true potential, how to find peace for your soul, or what you’ll regret as your breath falters on your deathbed. It’s simply about paying attention. About noticing.

What you notice doesn’t have to make you feel like a profound philosopher. It’s enough to notice that something makes you uncomfortable. Or that you find comfort in it. It’s okay to notice that your cat’s head smells like chocolate, or that when you breathe, there’s a faint ache at the bottom of your left ribcage.

It’s enough to notice that you are alive, that you are using your senses. It’s enough not to drift away. You won’t always succeed. Just now, you didn’t realize you’d been standing at the bus stop for the past ten minutes, floating in a fog until the bus’s harsh brakes grabbed you by the arm and pulled you back to life. You didn’t notice the lush green plants bursting from the smoker’s many pots, nor did you think about how much effort it must take to care for that many flowers. But that’s okay.

Now, when you get on the bus, you’ll notice the elderly woman sitting in the front row, the blue glittery eyeshadow on her eyelids. As you squeeze into your seat, you’ll notice your hunched posture and straighten your back.

That’s all.

I started going on 20 minute walks alone every day, without headphones. I wanted to experience my surroundings more carefully, to test what I might notice if I truly paid attention. At first, all I caught were small things: that I had never seen a blonde person in my neighborhood, or how my breaths felt cleaner in the cold air. Slowly, it made me realize how everyday routine can shrink your world, leaving you to pass through life without fully inhabiting it, learning a place through habit rather than curiosity, and noticing how much of life passes by above my lowered gaze.

Thank you for reading so far, and plase share what you’ve noticed in the comments.

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i want you to skin me
i’ve been told that it is thick, durable.
take it as a shield,
one to protect you from the sharpest of spears.

i want you to break my bones,
one by one, i would not tremble,
if they were meant to build armor for you.

i want you to cut my tongue,
i know it to be sharp, harsh.
take it as a sword,
your very own excalibur.

i want you to eat me, devour me,
suck the soul out of my fragile body,
feed on my remains,
when your strength falters.

i want you to take my devotion
to be your sustenance on the battlefield.
if you must consume something to go on,
let it be me.

and when your honor grows heavy,
and duty can no longer lift you,
when your horse no longer answers with thunder,
the way his hooves once sang across the ground,
when your chivalry is all spent,
and you had kept your vows too long to keep yourself,

and when you finally need to
set your sword deep into the stone,
so no strength can break it,
take my chest to be the stone.
bury it deeper than breath.
i promise to bear it in my heart,
refusing every mortal hand.

we were not meant to be
cross-starred lancelot and guinevere;
for i’m not a maiden in distress
but you’re a knight in shining armor.

nor were we meant to be
destined, arthur and merlin;
for i’m not a prophet or a mage
but you’re the king in golden crown.

and when all is said and done,
when you stood when fear expected you to flee,
then they all adored and wrote songs in your favor,

i want you to carry me with you
as the bridge on your nose,
the lash on your eye,
your fist upon the round table.

i am not half as glorious as you,
nor do i cary the valor
that you wear so easily;
but i would die a thousand deaths
if it meant one more victory
for you.

for i am not a princess
but you’re on a white horse.

This piece might begin on a pessimistic note. But don’t worry, I’m not a pessimistic person. I don’t have any intention of spreading unhappiness, or of pointing out dark corners and slapping reality across your face. I believe that recognizing the depressive elements in our lives, discovering the unsettling parts of ourselves, and learning to live alongside them does not stand in the way of a fulfilling life. You don’t have to ignore the things that disturb you, just as you don’t have to solve everything that disturbs you. We can continue our lives quite contentedly even when things aren’t fully in place and our inner worlds are messy.

There are feelings I’ve noticed within myself, feelings that make me slightly uneasy, but that I don’t intend to fix. I’m afraid of people. This isn’t a truth I hesitate to admit. When I see someone while walking down the street, the first thing I do is try to predict their next move and weigh whether that move could harm me. This isn’t a habit I can stop or something I actively try to overcome. When I’m outside, a part of my mind is constantly running scenarios about the people around me. I don’t demand that I be calmer or more optimistic. I’m aware that I should be afraid of people. Until I get to know them, most strangers make me uncomfortable. I’m not antisocial or cold; most likely, if we exchanged even a single sentence, all my prejudices would evaporate and I’d assume they want the best for everyone, just like anyone else.

Still, being wary of strangers means being aware of them, and watching them. When I walk down the street, I track the shadows on the ground to see how close the stranger behind me is. When I change direction, I need to check whether they follow. I need to calculate how long we’ve been walking the same route, whether it’s plausible that we’re actually heading to the same place. This is something I’ve learned from the countless news stories I encounter every day. Sometimes I imagine strangers as if they’re covered in nails, long, sharp nails. I shouldn’t stand close enough for them to hurt me, and I shouldn’t let them get too close. This isn’t a “I don’t meet anyone because I’m afraid of getting hurt” kind of story. I’m talking about strangers who could physically harm me on the street. Strangers who could land me on the evening news. The kinds of stories I avoid reading so I don’t ruin my mood. If you have even the slightest self-preservation instinct, say, as much as a baby deer, you know you’re supposed to keep your distance from strangers.

Lately, I’ve been trying to take myself out on solo dates. I want to expose myself to the world. I’m chasing experiences I don’t notice when I’m with others, taking a few steps beyond my comfort zone. If I want to see a movie and can’t convince anyone to come with me, I don’t want to miss out on that experience. Today, I want to watch that movie, in that theater.

So I made a decision. Our local cinema is hosting a David Lynch month, screening some of his films on weekends throughout the month. I’ve always been curious about Lynch’s work, and honestly, as someone who considers herself a cinema enthusiast, I’m a little embarrassed to admit that I’ve never truly entered that world. This month, I decided to kill two birds with one stone: I’d go see each of these films alone, turning them into solo dates. On Saturday morning at 11 a.m., I couldn’t convince a single person to join me for a black and white 1980 film about a man ostracized as a freak because of his physical deformity.

As soon as I entered the theater, the first thing I noticed was how many people, like me, had come alone. Since I was sitting toward the back, I started counting heads. Nine solitary heads, two heads sitting side by side, a father and his daughter, a couple in the front row who looked like true cinephiles, and a group of five friends. But there was someone behind me as well. Because he arrived after the lights went down, I hadn’t seen what he looked like. He was making the sounds of an adult man.

During the first half of the film, I was genuinely afraid of him. He was grumbling, muttering comments to himself. I felt how vulnerable the space was. If something were to happen inside, it would be very difficult to get help. I kept thinking about that horrific incident in a movie theater in the U.S. in 2012.

On the screen, elephants were trampling over a woman, accompanied by tense music from behind.

How could I possibly guess what was going through a stranger’s mind? The man was sitting directly behind me. Every rustle made me think he might be pulling something out of his bag.

Would I be able to duck in time? Could I crawl between the seats all the way to the exit? The kid sitting next to me was taller than I was, would he draw more attention?

Eventually, after what felt like forever, the first 1 hour and 2 minutes of the film ended.

Then I heard a voice from behind. I hadn’t realized there were two people sitting back there. I hadn’t noticed that next to the strange man talking to himself was a kindly old gentleman, also talking to himself. I hadn’t noticed the gray-haired man who would make a comment about Anthony Hopkins’s incredible performance and get the entire theater laughing.

I turned around, relieved, and looked at the only occupied seat in the very last row, a man I would smile at if I passed him on the street.

During the entire intermission, he chatted with us. He liked being in a theater full of young people; as a former university professor, he felt the urge to address us. He talked endlessly about the state, education, and praised Hopkins’s good looks. The second half of the film was much more enjoyable. His muttering no longer unsettled me, it amused me.

I’m still afraid of strangers. But I feel more prepared for the possibility that I might have a warm, pleasant interaction with some of them. I don’t seek out conversations with strangers in hopes of collecting funny anecdotes, but if one happens to come my way, I’ll happily write it down in my diary.

I don’t feel like writing today.

Or perhaps that’s a lie; because I crave to write, consumed by a fever for inspiration. I can feel the electricity in my fingertips as I touch the keyboard. Even a tiny crumb of an idea fills me with excitement. Today, I don’t merely want to write; I long to create something beautiful, to touch, to weave something from nothing. I want to find flawless words, craft perfect sentences, and pour out what’s inside me like clear water.

But I don’t feel like writing today.

Every fragment of an idea turns to dust before it can reach the tips of my fingers. My soul is being withdrawn. It’s as if my arms move by a will not my own; as if a puppeteer in another universe is pulling my strings just to make me touch the keys. It’s not just the desire to write that I’ve lost; I can’t find the will to live either. In times like these, I feel completely disconnected, numb and reluctant. I don’t even want to continue this piece. Every letter I press weighs on my shoulders like a burden. I line up the words one after another, in neat, lifeless rows, but I cannot feel them. I can’t feel anything. I can’t get excited, I can’t find enthusiasm; there is only an endless void and a sense of weary exhaustion inside me. I wish I could go to that puppeteer’s realm; at least then, I could be the one pulling someone else’s strings.

When I look out the window, I want to watch the rain fall beautifully, be able to think about how it gives life to the plants, and be moved by its elegant rhythm. I want a simple act, like just looking at the sky or feeling the wind on my face, to fill me with divine inspiration. I long to be one of those special people who see the beauty in a grain of salt, who believe there is a meaning under every stone, and who feel a passion for life, they carry life like a burning torch. I don’t feel passion for life. I love living, but not as much as they do. I am sure life has thousands of beauties, that the world is painted in colors too vivid for the eye to bear, and that it is full of miracles and magic. But I cannot see them the way it’s intended, my vision is way too blurry. Sometimes I convince myself that I can. Sometimes I approach life with zest. Sometimes I think I see the shining light of the Universe, only to realize later that the light is actually the flames rising from a battlefield, burning with sorrows of the world.

I want my writing to move you. To shake everyone. To stir storms within you, to make you want to jump up and do something, or to lie down and just think in haunting silence. I want to be one of those people, the one whose grace you envy after reading their lines. You want to be them, and you feel a rage towards them because they see what you cannot see and feel what you cannot feel.

But…

I don’t feel like writing today.

Sometimes I do, when the tide is high. Sometimes I feel as if I can touch souls with words. Sometimes I finish a piece and I feel proud of myself after putting down the final period. But this spell doesn’t last long. I won’t be able to feel the grace every day, and I will never be one of those people.

So,

I don’t really feel like writing today.

Until the next thought takes flight, Nature.

Sun, are you burning more violently today?
Your light is too bright, too merciless.
I can’t get enough,
I’m willing to let my eyes melt for you.

My feet cling to the earth, my head hangs in the sky,
I’m caught between opposites.
I’ve never loved the heat,
Yet I can’t stop watching your blaze.

I see the serpent wrapped around you, its dark body,
Coils you with such greed that you begin to choke.
Is it burning with you?

How did this wretch come so near your beauty?
Should have burned long ago.
It casts a shadow over your light,
And yet I wish I could see you more.
This crawling creature corrupts my view.

With your last strength, you burn brighter.
Are you making it suffer?
Shine as fiercely as you wish,
It will only tighten its grip.
Your light must seep through the bends of its body.

I wish you would turn it to ash,
Not even a smoke left to testify.
This vile creature was never meant to shadow you.
How did you allow it to come this close?

I wish you would tear out its fangs,
Rip the forked tongue out from its root.
Melt its ugliness with your fire.
Its cold scales will not extinguish you.

It will never touch you again.

Don’t let the serpents in your life shadow your light. You never have to hide your beams beneath their scales.

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Lying under the blanket, I can feel my nose and my toes getting cold. No matter how much I turn up the heater, this small house just won’t warm up; somehow, though, the cold makes staying under the blanket more appealing. It’s not thick enough —maybe I should have crawled under the duvet instead. The slight chill keeps me awake. My throat aches a little, my head is throbbing. I suppose I should get up and get some water, but I’m comfortable enough that I want to melt into the couch. The blanket itches a bit, but it’s fine; I’m sure that if I can focus a little more on the book in my hands, I won’t even notice it.

I’m very bored, but there’s a particular happiness to this boredom—I have time to be bored, and absolutely nothing I need to do. From the comfort of my home, I can live through the adventures of the character in this 262-page book. I don’t have to take responsibility, I don’t even have to go to the bathroom. I’m extremely comfortable, I can stay exactly where I am until my stomach starts to hurt. There’s no need to bother myself with doing anything. If I get sleepy, I don’t have to get up; I can just drift off right here on the couch. It’s a bit cold, and the blanket is a little thin, but if I curl up enough, I can warm myself. I’m very tired, and the couch is very comfortable. The living room light is a bit too bright, and I don’t want to waste electricity, but if people take a taxi for a twenty-minute walk, then I can certainly fall asleep with the lights on. If I turn over and bury my face in the pillow, I’m sure I’ll escape the light.

A sudden crackling sound irritates me. I’m far too comfortable to get up and clean whatever the cats have broken. When I open my eyes to see the mess, I notice, on the wall where my television used to be, a stupid door. A strange door, with a shiny handle, wooden panels, and a stone arch. I sigh. I’m too comfortable even to deal with a magical door on my wall. The door doesn’t resemble anything; it’s neither a fantastical passage opening into Wonderland, nor a terrifying path leading to hell. I don’t know what’s behind it, but it probably doesn’t open into my neighbor’s living room either.

Does it open into that imagined world of mine, full of lions, unicorns, and magic? What if it’s not an adventure exactly the way I want it to be? Pain, horror, and monsters could be waiting on the other side. There could be demons with fourteen eyes, crooked mouths, and long tails. It could be unbearably hot or painfully cold. I don’t want to miss a magical adventure —in fact, I’m eager to get up and open the door; but a stronger desire keeps me where I am. If I do nothing, maybe the door will disappear, and on the wall my small-screen television and the poster I bought at that bar in Istanbul will reappear.

I feel too numb right now to make a life-changing decision. A weight settles on me; I know it’s the weight of my thin blanket. If the door disappears, the responsibility of deciding disappears as well. Then I can keep lying under my blanket, slightly cold. The dream of a wonderland full of miracles is not stronger than the terror of the unknown. Sometimes staying in the comfort zone is more appealing than trying something new. A magical door may not always be a good sign; it may not be a risk I’d want to take while I’m about to drift off on the couch. Doing nothing can sometimes be satisfying enough.

Do I really not want to take a risk, or am I just too lazy to walk all the way to the door? Am I too comfortable on my couch, or is the blanket actually itching more than I want to admit? My neighbors are having a very loud argument, my book is very boring, and I have to admit that sleeping under this bright light won’t really be possible. Also, do I smell smoke? The orange lights coming from outside don’t seem to belong to broken street lamps. I think this door is offering me a more realistic option than I thought. I think my choice isn’t really between a fairy universe and a hellish abyss; it’s between escaping or burning. Am I really too lazy to find out what’s behind this door, lazy enough to melt into my couch? Besides, the blanket is really itching a lot now.

I calmly open my eyes and blink. The mermaid on the poster I bought at that other bar in Istanbul winks at me. From the bread I forgot on the pan for far too long, a charcoal-like smell rises, signaling that it’s no longer edible. I knew this blanket was too thin for sleeping. Those stupid magnesium pills always make me have such strange dreams. I guess it’s time to stop being lazy and finally send my graduate school applications.