the feeling of flying to istanbul

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i drew this on the plane from amsterdam to istanbul - gambling my heart on the bet that i will be making a real home there, for all the seasons (except summer, when it’s hot and crowded as hell and i will definitely escape…).

after leaving the greek islands, i spent a week in paris and amsterdam to collect bags of clothes from friends — clothes i haven’t seen in months, or years. i went also to collect pieces of myself, and, what can i say - it was a violent experience. leaving is violent, arriving is violent. this whole year was incredibly violent.

i was feeling nervous about flying to istanbul - what if i’m wrong about this intuition i have about istanbul - but upon retrospect, the truth is that i’m never wrong. about people: yes. about places: no.

i sat on a crowded plane full of chatty turkish men and families who seem to be going home for the holidays - and i looked inward and saw this feeling inside me: of kaleidoscopic pieces, coming together.

as if my body knew that it would soon be entering a place with enough power, enough gravitational pull, enough magnetism - to pull all the million fragmented pieces of me together. a city where i’ll go to be very, very still and silent. even if it’s just for now. even if for just a moment.

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go to istanbul