Distractions

I weave in and out of human traffic, shrewd and calculating. Here in Istanbul the population is an estimated 15 million people. That is fifteen million people, fifteen million worries, fifteen million inspirations and life paths, walking in fifteen million directions. I walk deftly, dodging people and strollers, always passing to the left as if behind the wheel. This is the pedestrian Autobahn.

I often breathe a sigh of thanks when I have reached my destination with a few near misses, but no collisions.

Elsewhere I have a characteristically lazy stroll and do things in a leisurely fashion. But just as one is unable to defy the laws of gravity, the tourist, local, and everyone in between are subject to this obligation to rush. All actions are seemingly carried out with a consuming sense of urgency.

I see it in the faces of others and frequently recognize it stirring within myself. Stress tightens its grip around the thoughts, asphyxiating peace of mind, the forehead wrinkles, the shoulders collapse inward, the heart races, and fists clench. Leaving your door every day you age a little if you are unaware of these responses.

A weakened ability to focus is another byproduct of this speed of existence. I find myself perpetually distracted by the scent of roasting street food or fruit from a stand wafting from delicate skin, voices in the streets, interesting looking and passionate people, striking contrasts in architecture and scenery, bursting colors of foods, turquoise waters, and sunsets. There is so much to seduce the senses that it lures me from productivity. Everyone moment ignites creativity and simultaneously extinguishes it.

With the profound voice of the oracles my friends told me ‘Do not stop writing when you are in Istanbul.’ And indeed I had stepped away from it, having found it surprisingly difficult to write. With so much stimulation it is easy to lose focus. A plethora of sites, sounds, and smells strike me at the core of my being, but by the time I can reflect on and articulate the feeling, the feeling is gone and replaced by a new one. As such, this is not writer’s block, to which I thought my friends might have been referring. It is writer’s ADHD.

I leave my apartment and on the way to the subway I smell corn roasting, fish from the market, bread from a bakery, a car horn honks, a child yells for his mother, a vendor yells, there is a stunning dress in the clothes shop window, the call to prayer begins, a man with piercing blue eyes walks by and another whose features are very dark searches for eye contact with me, an angelic little girl with red hair eats ice cream, a wave of warmth flows over me at seeing another black face, the tram bell dings, there are deep purple figs, rich green cucumbers, bright red tomatoes, a man’s prayer beads, the clinking of a spoon stirring tea, musicians in the street, music from the cafe, colors burst from flowers for sale in the bucket of a woman sitting on the sidewalk…

As I start to run for the metro stop life around me begins to blur like objects in the side window rushing past when driving down the highway. I reach the platform and jump into the train before the doors close and I see an advertisement that inspires a thought. I reach for my notebook to jot down the thought but my stop has come and I am rushing for the exit, rushing down the street, rushing to,.. and a voice deep within asks for my sake and for every single person doing the same, ‘to where?’