healingcore-griefisnotbroadcasted

Text:

© ilminur
Grief is not broadcasted

There
A random file
A beetle on a spring leaves
Origin of a cycle

The initial motive in a twenty minutes long track
To tempt to test
To provoke
To grow

Yet not knowing it's improvised
Broadcasting one's future feeling
As though deciding
how red must the flower bloom up to be
How chilly would the cold be in towns I am dreaming about
Drifted around
On the top of the mountains where a universe woke up gradually to the sun
And I had fun

People who presume
Must have mastered the skill to move on to other people before themselves
Before they ripped off their skins and showed their flesh to the streams of consciousness
Of self
Serving the holiness of words
Of typing them
To let the fingers dance without a logic
only to a train of thoughts

On a piece of google doc, a nothing,
A 'just copy paste and leave it there'


Two paragraphs, shorter than expected
A lot of things are shorter than expected
Mother's life
West Coast’s winter
The milk I keep only intend to drink for a week
The color of the couple tattoo I had with a 'love of life'

It screams survival mode

And turns out

I am a human

Grief might not come as a music
But mine tried to become one
Even though I don't know how to play any instrument
Not a single musical knowledge whatsoever
Only an ear
One says life comes without handbooks
But mine came with a one single way ticket
With music I only listen to religiously


Cuz there is music that wakes a deadhead up from an ocean of thoughts,
of rotten and fruitless circulation of information and noise and ideas and whereabouts and whatnots
To sit straight on your chair, to take a sip of the cold brew
Fingers rolling in muds like a dog just found their best friend

Salute to the screen
Like saluting the sun
Or a sunflower
Or a sunflower to a sun
Cuz my fingers sometimes dance around blood and battle

Blood and battle


The sun
Is above my waist
There's a shaft of sunlight on it
A bowl of warm soup my ancestors who stood in the same blood sent
Their sacrifice, their devotion and beliefs and sweat is
Soft and stubbornly brave
Burns hot
Like home

It's a
Slipped disc
Yet upholds waves of
Words
Stories
County and continents
The same Ikea furnitures I ended up buying in every new one

Promises, fake and real
unnoticed
Surprises
Visa and travel document
Of old bank and library cards of a past life city
Of crossing impossible boarders

I wonder how my waist deal with this life
I never asked its opinion`

The floor it stood up to clean
The guests it stood up to smile to
The metro stairs it stood up to climb to

It stood up
My grief
Is me
My grief is the music inside me

My grief is jazz music
Sound of Senuber
Sound of new possibilities along with cheap and raw synthesizers at home studios
Sound of Muqam
My grief is the sonic gold mountains I know I am sitting on

They're aren't decided
They don't only belong to museums
Grief is not decided


Ask me about geographical luck
the grapes and fruits back home taste the best
Not because of nostalgia
Not because of skin color
instead
because not only the sun stays longer

but also it gets really cold at night
Really cold
Like grief
Like

Jazz music
Black and strong beat
Of surprise
Of taking up space
Of screaming
Of leading and creating
Of caring and actually loving
Feminine enough to be the origin of feminism
See there is a kind of grief where you wanna scream
"Something better comes out of this",

It's field of encouraging space
For mother's sacrifice
For women’s sacrifice
How is that I’ve been keeping told that I shouldn’t compare struggles
But it’s all women’s labor everywhere
Everyday
That shows up ?
I am allowed to dream the best
Dream like I lost
Cuz I did

the rockbottom
is either
It's me who done wrong

Or
it's me who is gonna make it right


I thought
I thought my people didn't scream
So when I took two Pdfs of this dead poet who weaved in drunk

I made songs