Music by My Bedside. Kürsat Basar

biggest interests were cars and comic books, which he read as enthusiastically as a little kid, whenever he wasn’t busy improving himself by learning Mandarin Chinese, practicing the flute, or attending the opera.

      He also read health magazines and books on technology, paid attention to his diet, smoked once in a blue moon, and limited himself to one glass of alcohol at cocktail parties or receptions.

      I’m sure that he didn’t put on a wrinkled shirt even once in his life.

      If he had, he would probably have been the unhappiest person on earth.

      Many years later, one evening, for the first (and perhaps the last) time, he went out of the protective cocoon of order he had woven around himself. He always walked with his head up, but now he lurched and, raising his voice, said, “Do you think I don’t know about the exciting things other people experience or that I lack their emotions? I know all about them, of course, but such things ruin one’s life. I’ve known what I’ve wanted since I was a child. Because of that, I’ve done everything according to a plan. Happiness is not beyond mountains, or in a paradise you reach after having great adventures. Happiness is right here, beside you . . . in your own home. If you can’t recognize it here, how are you going to find some obscure happiness somewhere else? Go then. Go and find it.”

      He was right. He was one of those people who knew what they wanted. He didn’t want to live a wild life but to stand securely at the exact place that he could call his own.

      It was true that he desired to build up his life the way he wanted it. Knowing that he would be satisfied with the happiness right beside him, he did not want to grow unhappy by dreaming of things he had never seen or had. However, he had made the wrong decision for the life he wanted to establish.

      “The only thing that makes me sad is not being able to make a place for myself in the life you have planned,” I replied. “I wish I could be a part of it. I wish I were more like you. Please forgive me. I did not choose anything myself, even when I thought I was the one who chose.”

      It really was like that.

      I would have also liked to live as if gliding on a tranquil sea on a warm, calm, late spring day.

      Peace. Some choose to have peace. A life far away from ups and downs, pulsations, expectations, frustrations, fear, and worry. A life protected from all danger.

      I don’t remember when, but once I was in a village in Bolu on a summer afternoon and saw an old man sitting in front of his home under the crimson sky, staring into the empty distance.

      When I greeted him and asked what he was doing, he said, “I’m waiting, dear girl.”

      “What are you waiting for?”

      He turned his gaze away from empty space and looked at me. Surprised by my question, he said, “What could I be waiting for? For the day to end of course!”

      The word “peace” always reminds me of that old man sitting there, waiting for the day to end.

      That old man who had reduced his life to a simple moment of staring into space.

      Perhaps I would have also liked to be a person who did not care what happened either right beside her or farther away than she could know. Thus, I thought that staring into space, observing the ever-changing crimson sky was much more fulfilling than anything else. Maybe.

      But I wasn’t able to be someone like that.

      Unforeseen storms ruled my life. It is true that there was a harbor I could take refuge in, and I did take shelter in it. Yet, what could I do? I realized each time that those storms attracted me instead of frightening me, calling me into that unknown realm, where I was unable to forget the excitement of being hurled in this or that direction by the wind.

      That is why each time I packed my suitcases, the excitement and joy of beginning my life all over again overwhelmed me, rather than the calmness of a person who feels she is entering a new stage in her orderly life.

      Some people have a single life. They call this being honest. A life whose each and every detail is known. It must be like living in a bell jar. What a foolish thing to do! What a big lie!

      It is, indeed, a lie because none of us is living in a globe, under glass. I wonder what we would find in our memory if we opened it without fear. So many things that have nothing to do with our words or our appearance. Even we would be bewildered.

      How foolish! Because why should one want to be held captive in a single life?

      Some people search after the truth for a lifetime, while some create their own truth and believe in it.

      As far as I’m concerned, only cowards believe life must be lived within the boundaries of a small world and according to the rules of their own world. What’s more, they also judge others, in every century, by the rules that are different in each section of the world map painted with a different color.

      Isn’t that glamorous scene in a ballroom illuminated by crystal chandeliers and full of beautiful, charming women in shimmering gowns, which rustle as they dance with handsome men, the center point of many tales and young girls’ dreams?

      This is the perfect picture of life, consisting of only the best aspects and omitting all the rest—the unhappiness, poverty, pain, ailments, distress, and wickedness. Naturally, this picture is fleeting. A short moment, a snapshot in time.

      An unforgettable waltz inevitably accompanies that picture. When the young lady enters the ballroom after so many days of excitement and hours of preparation, gently picking up the fluffy skirt sweeping the floor as she takes small steps, all eyes turn to look at her. It is a unique moment.

      A moment of glory.

      This was the picture, down to the minutest detail, that would be engraved in my memory one night in the ballroom of the most famous hotel in Ankara.

      As I walked on to the shiny floor bathed in light, I knew that everyone in the room stopped for a moment and turned to look at me. I held my skirt gently and took small, serene steps toward the center of the room.

      How can I ever forget that evening gown made of ivory taffeta leaving my shoulders bare? It circled my waist tightly and billowed all the way to my feet. I wore long gloves of the same color, which covered my arms. A gossamer thin shawl covered my shoulders. I had a necklace of emeralds, with a matching set of earrings. My lips were painted bright red. Although my hair was made into a bun, some locks spilled down the sides of my face.

      But what caused that incomprehensible clenching in my heart or the odd swelling in my chest? It was not just because of the attention all the important guests showed to a young girl walking under the crystal lights as if she were a film star.

      It was also not because of that same young girl’s excitement about returning to this city years later—this time as a young woman—and showing off her breathtaking beauty, which everyone would truly admire.

      That princess expected someone to take her hand, pull her away from the brilliant lights and the colorful dream illuminating her, and say, “You don’t know what you want, but I do. You don’t even know what you’re dreaming of, but I do, and I will make it come true. Hold my hand, close your eyes, and come with me without question.”

      He would be the prince who appeared in tales, riding a white horse, the kind of handsome hero we see in films, or the perfect dream we give up one day, thinking that all is, unfortunately, a lie: life was different, and that dream was a fairytale.

      Nowadays, I know that films emphasize this truth from the first scene. Dreams have long been lost, and we have accepted it as a fact. There is no longer a hero who will grasp the princess’s hand and take her through the realm of stars to his humble home surrounded by wildflowers and tell her that from that day on, every new day will begin with joy and bliss.

      What happened to those heroes?

      What happened to all those