When the first holiday from work came, I decided without deliberation to spend it in Istanbul. I have started to notice that when I am here, I am reminded that each moment overflows with possibility for a new experience and to see the unseen. And often when I observe I am overtaken by an odd feeling of both wonder and melancholy.
I stood on Istiklal street this morning to meet a friend. As I waited I noticed three quarters of a cigarette that had been tossed to the ground, but the smoke continued since it was not stamped out. I watched all sorts of shoes, sneakers, heels, and boots walk near it, oblivious to it. The smoke continued, although it weakened over time as the cigarette’s fires were slowly extinguished in the chilly winds of a winter morning.
Except for my passive observation the smoke’s diffusion went unnoticed, like a passionate person shouting in the streets whose voice drowns in the indifference of those that pass by. The cigarette would go on preaching its message to no one as it turned to ash.
Soon, I thought, it will be flattened and sullied by footprints. It will appear as the remnants around it, whose history no one considers.