The new city is bustling with activity everywhere. It has been a few weeks since I moved here; twelve or thirteen I cant seem to agree on a number. I’ve been away from the place I call home for nine years now, a significant fraction of my life considering I’m just twenty-seven years old. Twenty-seven years old, single, with a moderately successful career ahead of me. I sat down on my mattress, which was spread out on the floor, a queen size mattress, just for me. It was a regular day at work, with some regular people, had very regular conversation, and went through lunch with the exact same machinations of the old clock that used to stand in the living room of my home nine years ago. Grandfather clock we used to call it. With a pearl white dial showing huge Roman numerals, the black wooden clock stood four feet tall from the ground and was almost a foot wide. The pendulum was almost two feet tall and made the perfect arc as it moved side-to-side, tic-tock-tic-tock.
I sat staring at the wall listening to the rhythmic noise of the clock, which was many years and many kilometers away. In that intense stare-down with the wall, I failed to notice the new wallpapers and posters I’d put on the week before, when I moved into my new room. As I came back to the city from my trance, the room came back into focus. It was quite a spacious room, a perfect square with each side equaling ten feet. A huge window with a slider lie to my right, covered by red curtains of two kinds, one with a very simple sinusoidal pattern, whereas the other had some kind of floral pattern which I could not comprehend. A large wardrobe stood right next to the space on the wall I was staring at, it was a wooden wardrobe of a strange orange tinted material with the nodes and notches on the wood following regular patterns; clearly artificial, I thought to myself. The space in front of me had a poster, fifteen inches tall and eight inches wide, carrying a very popular quote from a very popular personality. The purpose of the poster was to keep me reminded that only those who set out to change the world actually have a chance at doing it. To my left was a map of the world with a few flight trajectories on it. I’d been to a neighboring country a few months back, my first major tour, and lived out of a backpack for ten days and loved it. I thought the travel bug had bitten me and I was destined to travel the whole world. Not that I believed in destiny, or God or the Invisible Hand. I was wrong. I was destined to sit under a wallpaper of a tree and a few butterflies floating over my head, nibbling on one square inch tablets of homemade chocolate. I wonder which ones I like more, milk or dark. Milk, definitely, I think most of the times, but I keep coming back to dark for some mysterious reason that lies in the bunch of nerve endings in my tongue called taste buds. I finally tear my eyes off the space in front off me and focus them on the front page of the book in my hands.
From the Holy Mountain spoke about a lot of things; countries, wars, rebellions, religion and history, but what captured me the most was Turkey with its wars, the rebellions, religions and the history.