the clown’s suicide

if your conscience masturbation is over, welcome to the real hell.

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[Trigger Warning: Violence, Trauma, and Pure Pessimism]

The Clown’s Suicide

If your conscience masturbation is over, welcome to the real hell.

Translated from the original Turkish.

You open your eyes. No, you are not waking up; you are just letting the system plug you back in. Before your consciousness even settles, your hand reaches for that illuminated, rectangular god.

This is not a choice, it is a reflex.

Even Pavlov’s dog waited for the bell; you don’t even need the bell.

You scroll.

That mechanical movement of your thumb is more vital than breathing.

A cat video. A fake smirk. Scroll.

A photo of an influencer marketing their soul on the “like” stock exchange for a sponsored vacation. Double tap. Like. Scroll.

And then...

A shattered corpse of a child. A bombed city. A human whose ribs can be counted due to starvation.

You pause. Exactly 3 seconds. That is your mourning period.

A feeble voice rises from inside, from that reservoir of fake mercy: “Ah, humanity is dead.”

You immediately take that savagery and paste it onto your own digital showcase. A broken heart underneath, maybe a teary-eyed emoji. Make the font “Neon,” it attracts more attention.

The moment you press the share button, you feel that moral orgasm in your veins. “I did my duty. I did not remain silent.”

You zip up your conscience.

Others’ hell is your content material. Those people’s warm blood is your engagement rate.

Even if there is an action difference between capitalizing on a corpse and trampling it, there is no difference in intent.

Stop coming to me and reading the fairy tale of “raising awareness.” You are not creating awareness, you are engaging in downright conscience masturbation. And admit it, this relieves you terribly.

Awareness is nothing more than a wet wipe that cheaply cleans your conscience. Just like wiping your mouth after a meal, you wipe the world’s filth off yourself. You think you are spotless.

But that smell... That smell of raw meat and rot has already permeated your pores. No matter what perfume you spray, you cannot suppress that stench of carcass emanating from your soul.

You are scared.

You pretend to be a “good person” because you are afraid of burning in hell or being ostracized by society. We all know how fast you would take off that “moral” mask if you had the opportunity to commit a crime without punishment.

If there is no camera, no applause, no “well done,” then you don’t exist either.

“Let’s send good messages to the universe, let’s raise our frequency...”

The universe doesn’t need your bullsh*t positive energy. The universe feeds on chaos. This place is not a realm of mercy, but a massive slaughterhouse where only teeth and claws win. The gazelle doesn’t say “please don’t eat me, let’s send positive energy” to the lion.

It runs or it dies.

Your activism, which you boast about so much, consists of a 280-character tweet sent while slurping your coffee, buried in your armchair in your air-conditioned room.

You are digital charlatans who think revolution will be made with hashtags. You are merchants cheap enough to moan “No War” in the morning and say “My sweater is 20% off for those who click this link” in the afternoon.

And do you know what the saddest part is? Even that anger you feel does not belong to you.

You think you are rebelling with your free will, but you are just gnawing on the bones the algorithms throw in front of you to make you angry. Pain is for sale. And you are the most loyal buyers of this bloody market.

Do you think those at the top, your “elders,” love you?

No. They love you for the same reason a farmer loves the sheep in his barn. They don’t look into your eyes with love; they look at your meat, your milk, your wool. They love you because you are capital that needs to be fed until the feast of sacrifice. You fill your stomachs with tales of “reputation” while your breath smells of hunger.

You are the blind who think they are looking at the stars while wallowing in the mud.

You love playing the victim. But be informed; you are not victims, you are accomplices.

You love chaos. Because your lives are so empty, so gray; you only feel alive when you see the red blood of others.

If you had the courage to look in the mirror, you would admit that the only thing crossing your mind while making those pathetic posts was this: “Did this make me look sufficiently intellectual and sensitive?”

But you won’t. Because if that mask falls, you will see the rot underneath, the monster inside that “good person” costume.

Especially that faith of yours... That faith you put in the showcase and polish is nothing but a dirty merchant’s bargain you made with God.

“Let me bow and rise five times a day, and you give me eternal paradise.” “Let me go hungry, and you give me rivers of wine and houris.”

This is not faith, sir, this is trade. Or rather; bribery.

How are you different from the briber who says, “Look, I tucked a good deed into my file, get my job done?”

You think God is a corrupt bureaucrat whom you can “win over” with prayers and sacrifices. While your tongue recites verses, your mind is on those sins you call “forbidden” but desire while drooling.

You cannot buy paradise. Because your soul has already been mortgaged. The cheapest goods in the marketplace were your dignity, and you couldn’t even bargain.

But don’t think I am superior to you.

I am that clown playing the lead role in his own tragedy, having breakdowns on stage because he forgot the script. Let no one bet that what comes out from under the colorful paint on my face when it washes away with sweat and tears is “human.” You would lose.

I have to play the harmless buffoon outside to contain that dangerous monster inside. Those laughters tearing my throat are not signs of joy. I laugh until blood comes from my vocal cords so no one feels the rage of that chained king inside me.

I prefer that willful monster who chooses not to show its teeth despite having the capacity to bite, over the coward who looks docile because his teeth have been pulled out.

Goodness must be a choice, not desperation.

The world is an insane asylum and I am a patient who has accepted his madness. You are madmen wearing doctor’s coats. And believe me; the most dangerous ones are those who deny they are mad.

Dancing alone feels hard now. Yet we didn’t even need music before. Now, I feel tiny among those “big” men, those “important” people. While worthless types see themselves in a giant mirror, those with real souls are crushed within this chaos.

---

Right now, at this very second, I am swallowing the heaviest curses coming to the tip of my tongue. I just want to vomit. The lies I consumed, the fake kindness, the sticky insincerity... I want to vomit them all out and find relief.

When Pandora’s box was opened, evils were scattered outside. Only one thing remained at the bottom of the box: Hope.

And we fools thought for thousands of years that this was a “consolation.” However, those who prepared that box were sadists. They saved the greatest evil for last. Because hope serves no purpose other than prolonging the torture.

Why do you wake up every morning when that f*cking alarm rings? Why do you go to that job you hate, smile at people you loathe? Because a lie called “the future” was sold to you. The lie that “one day everything will get better.”

Hope is not the poor man’s bread. Hope is the slave’s chain.

It is the strongest drug injected into the vein so the slave doesn’t rebel, doesn’t break his chains.

Shall I tell you a secret? There is no light at the end of the tunnel. That light is the headlight of the train coming towards you.

I have lost my hope. And for the first time in my life, I am this light. As long as you believe it will get better, you will continue to turn the gears of the broken order.

Give up. Let go of the rope. Hit rock bottom.

Those who say “we will see beautiful days” are the ones who know best that we will never see those days.

Because only those who hit rock bottom have nowhere left to fall. Those “hopeful” fools hanging in the air are condemned to swing in that void forever.

Why am I writing all this?

Not to save you. Just to write “I saw” with my blood on the window of the wagon before leaving, before that train hits me. (Even though I know nothing has meaning, I cannot stop myself from writing on those walls. This is my curse; trying to attribute meaning to meaninglessness.)

I know I could hold it if I reached out. But I don’t want to be one of those fools who cannot see with their eyes the end they prepared with their hands.

Let it rain. Let’s get wet. Let no one understand whether the wetness on our faces comes from the sky or our tear ducts. What would change if they understood anyway?

I pause. My hand remains suspended in the air.

If I really knew it was the “last time,” I would have acted differently in some situations. For example, I would have hugged the people I shrugged off and hurt tighter. As humans, we live life very carelessly. We take tomorrow for granted.

I guess I am a hopeless romantic; I don’t like endings at all. Because I couldn’t manage to say goodbye, I always ran away at the best part of the story. That’s why I won’t let this story end either.

The light is coming upon me. The sound of metal scraping metal is shrill enough to crack my skull. I don’t close my eyes. I open my arms wide and wait for that great impact, that peaceful end. And...

The train passes right through me.

My bones don’t break. My blood doesn’t splatter on the glass. That ton of weight pierces through my body as if passing through a ghost. Only its wind messes up the clown paint on my face a bit more, that’s all.

At that moment, I understand that terrible truth.

I wasn’t waiting on the rails. I was already one of the unhappy crowd inside that wagon.

I died years ago, but no one mourned me.

Don’t be afraid, you won’t see a corpse.

Because the dead cannot commit suicide.

I told you I don’t like endings. Look, it didn’t end. Tomorrow morning that alarm will ring again. I will pick up that illuminated rectangle too. And we, as the living dead, will continue to smile at each other.

I raise my glass to those who died but forgot to be buried.

“La Commedia è finita!”

The play is over, kids. You can laugh.

Cheers.

---

Don’t expect me to sell you the lie that “we will see beautiful days.” This isn’t an amusement park, this is the exit door.

That train won’t stop again.

Either you wait foolishly on the rails and watch the system crush you, or you jump into that wagon and go into the unknown with us.

If you stay out you’ll freeze, if you come in you’ll burn. But at least you’ll feel alive.