Warrior
By Cemre Eraslan
A warrior is combing her hair
her thoughts are as follows:
- "my hand hurts"
- the dream she had last night
(where she was saving the world.)
Warriors often have such dreams, as expected.
My hand hurts.
I miss home.
I draw the distant mountains
from memory.
I'm doing my hair
in the mirror.
My linage must have been exhausted. The culture that suits me is sold nowhere.
There is no business for it, no business cards,
my culture is bankrupt, it has no employees. Or I simply haven’t been to where I can acquire it: the supermarket in the south-west(?), or the mall in the south-east(?).
I simply don’t try so hard. I am at a gentle point.
What I consume does not know me, yet becomes me.
From Apple to Soup. City-start to end.
All this has made me forget all I have learned.
Of which I have come to remember.
But I can't figure out the details of what I know, just the outline.
The rope is unraveling slowly.
Twisting outwards
to reveal nothing.
It is as if the past is the lesson book under my notebook. Cosmic student, cosmic employee.
Green, the main hunger, amazement, illuminated notes, delicatessen, insatiable satisfaction,
the shapes and things
that the crazy student draws on her textbook.
*
Cemre Eraslan is an artist and poet currently studying at Amsterdam’s Rietvald Academy.