Hiraeth

I don't think I ever wanted to die that much as I did a few years ago, you see the urge was so eminent that I thought everything would soon be happening as per my wish, the death process, I used to think death as an escape, I so believed that the wishes I had ,which was dying, would soon happen, I used to think this is it, now my body and mind cannot conquer a single thought, a very simple notion will be shattered if it seeps inside of my mind, I had to solve the miseries but then I was wishing for the miseries to be erased by itself. I was thoughtful; I was a mirage of contentions, ideas, convictions, views, images, and imaginations. My head was working like a machine, an engine of a car, replaying every single scene happened with me, all the good and bad ones, every single strand of content was collapsing with each other, every thought dominating another, every little thing piercing through my blood covered heart, every ounce of thoughts were behaving as if wires, the electric ones which brushes against one another and sparks, creates fire afterwards. As if I was drowning in the ocean of images, loads of images. My companion was the concrete JUNGLE. My surroundings are a concrete jungle, a place where huge buildings and monuments are built, where emotions and feelings play no role, where there is no existence of care, kindness, or gratitude. The buildings are made of bricks, which is a rephrase of their hearts that live here. The residencies are filled with black ink in their hearts hiding every reaction, every expression. Everything is about showcasing the feelings, not about actually obtaining it. Whereas everything is about competition, about a challenge, about a race every resident participates not in order to learn the changes but to win no matter how much they cheated. In the end, winning matters to them and nothing else. Nobody sees the people crushing under the weight of these challenges. Nobody notices the shattering noises of their hearts after not winning even after giving their best. Nobody remembers the participants, but the winners, nobody recognizes how hard work some did but lost at the end. It is all about gaining power to people, living in a concrete jungle. A power they gain by winning. Let me tell you about the power now, the power is people's comments, their fake praises, and their behavior as if they are some lower class than them. Power for them is degrading the people, power for them is making others believe that they are lower standard than them, power is creating a class which is for them the higher one, power is differentiating people by category, such as, the poor, the middle class, and the upper class. Some of the categories are normal humans and abnormal humans. Some of their categories are healthy people and sick people. Death for them is not an escape like mind. Death for them is the end of their powers, when they are too vulnerable to hold their powers, and they die. This is a concrete jungle.

Concrete jungle for me has a soul. It has a heart. Concrete jungle is the replica of my heart. Then you can say, "How so? You just rebelled against the concrete jungle. "

Concrete jungle, for me, is a record of wires, which has millions of thoughts in it. The thoughts try to escape, but they find millions of doors, they get stuck in a puzzle and never can get out of that maze. Concrete jungle is heavy, it gets heavier day by day, concrete jungle is tiresome, concrete jungle acts blank sometimes, it is null and void in spite of all these images. Concrete jungle sometimes creates hope, it hopes, and I hope that's why it is still alive. But a few years ago, I saw my hopes running away from me from my concrete jungle. We weren't able to catch it. My hopes were vanishing, making me a Gideon of my own visions.

What do we feel before we die? Death is no being; it's a state of being. Death has no soul, it is not fleshed, and it doesn't have any arms and beneath it, there are no bones, blood doesn't run in veins. Death is nothing like living yet a lot like living, because we ourselves give death a soul and name them our killer which exposes themselves in many faces, we ourselves create the contention of death being a destroyer, the evil, the snatcher as if death has any purpose like humans, purposes, hope, responsibility, and choosing a path where our happiness lies is called living. Living only with just a beating heart isn't enough. Living is a myth created by the human mind that carries themselves as individuals and invisible. Living is a notion a general mind creates according to where their happiness lies. Hope it triggers living. Hope works as a messiah for living. If we have hope, we can not only live but also be alive. Whereas death is something we can't decipher. It's a wind, a rapid one or a gentle one. It shadows surrounding us and makes our little pieces invisible, and our soul leaves our body, surrenders to the wind. We can't stop the wind from flaring its wings and grasping our existence. But death doesn't happen when only we fall sick with some incurable disease; death happens when the disease provokes our hope, our desires, and the purposes our minds create. When the existent world doesn't require our existence or our existence doesn't need the world now to live, we die. Death never comes when we want to give up, death always come when we are just starting to fulfill the purpose of living, when we are choosing the path which makes us happy, when we are satisfied with the path, when we are in love with hope, death comes right at that moment to make us realize we had our worthy pleasure and now it's time to stop. If we see that death is cruel, it's a time captivator. It attracts time, and we run out of it. Sometimes death comes as the visitor like diseases. It just poisons the system covered with flesh, it wrecks our bones, and sometimes it makes our body like an empty vessel, which needs complete isolation. Death in the face of diseases seems monstrous. Death is never pleasant, but it's not a destroyer or a killer. Death gives hints to diseases, to the time to decrease, death gives lead to accidents. But the most powerful way a death comes when it has to consume the human brain, it corrupts a mind to surrender them to it. Death is the killer of hope, not a human body. Hope also triggers death, but it becomes a monster when it comes to death. Because when death comes, hope dies, time just can't help but reduce; numbness comes earlier and collects the body to the creator. Death is not cruel, but it's not pleasant either. Death carries us, and we don't carry them. Death drags us with them, but not in a painful way, but in a way where we see no hope, we become blind, we become deaf from listening to it... Where there is no hope, there is no life.

But you know the day that I started to write Visions of a Gideon, I wanted to escape death, so much that my entire body shivered under the weight of it. I wanted to believe that death wasn't real. I wanted to run away from death, I wanted to run away from the terrified truth of death, it haunted me. I wanted to see something else and I did.

Want is one of the most underrated emotions. WANT. You see someone's eyes, and you start to describe those pairs of black numb eyes filled with nothing by comparing your one of the most desirable things or one of the warmest sceneries. Why? Because you want to. You want to only compare your most fantasy filled, heinously gorgeous, and illusionary thoughts to that one person. Why not for another person? Because you don't want to. Why is it only wanted? Because your wants sometimes catch something so soulful, and it warms your wants, and you really just can't help but delineate it with the things you earlier wanted. You want to try to grasp that only particular thing or person or scenery so dearly that sometimes your every want is being showcased in that something so much wanted now. Such as, you don't describe every person's eyes as oceanic; you don't narrate everyone's eyes' as rendezvous, you don't soulfully describe someone's eyes relentless and at the same time soft, you don't say everyone's eyes are sometimes longing, sometimes yearning for something, you don't say everyone's eyes are saddened, grieving and sometimes beaming with joy and happiness. But you say that particular person's eyes are relentlessly and horrendously deep and oceanic. But you say that particular person's eyes are filled with starlets letting the universe know that they are the brightest in it. Do you? Oh yes, you do. Because of what? Want. You only want that person's emotions to match your wants so that you can narrate because of what? Want has chosen that soul before anything. And now all you want is that person. Ironic isn't it.

I wrote this book when I wanted death to not happen, to not occur and to not snatch

This book is for my husband