WHEN THE VEIL TORE

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📘 WHEN THE VEIL TORE Memories of a Lighthouse From Şükrü’s Story

Sukru Tosun

Apr 21

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Front Page Note

A story that began in 1967, whose veil tore in 2023, and was finally written down in 2025…

In cyclical time, it has always existed.

“Some lives are never told.

One day, the silence inside them turns into words.”

Instead of a Preface

I waited for years to write this book.

Or maybe I never waited; I just stayed silent.

You cannot tell everything you experience right away. Some experiences do not fit into words even as they happen. When told, they shrink. When touched by someone else’s language, they lose their essence. Parts of my life were like that. For a long time, I did not try to explain. Because no matter what I said, I saw the same thing in people’s eyes: doubt, distance, mockery, fear, or pity.

Over time, you learn not to speak.

Then you carry your silence like a house.

And finally, inside that silence, you hear your own voice again.

This book is not a teaching. It is not a call to faith. It is not a defense written to convince anyone. It is simply what I saw, what I felt, what I lived – and the weight I carried for years without being able to name.

To some, this book may read like a novel.

To others, like a memoir.

To others still, like a well-written madness.

I do not object.

Because now I know: everything that happens to a person does not have to fit within the limits of what others can understand. Some lives are completed only inside the one who lives them. And some veils can only be torn from within.

If these pages reached you not by chance but as a call, perhaps something inside you – something long unnamed – is also beginning to stir.

Then come. Let us begin.

PART ONE

THE FIRST TEAR IN THE VEIL

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Chapter 1 – On the Back of the Truck

According to official records, my story began in 1967. But a birth date does not always tell when a life truly begins. Sometimes a fall starts it. Sometimes a collision. Sometimes a breaking point.

For me, that breaking point came when I was seven years old.

We lived in Gültepe back then. We were poor, but inside that poverty there was a warmth that has nearly disappeared today. Doors never fully closed. Children did not belong to one house; they belonged to the whole street. Houses were one or two stories high. People did not have much, but they had each other.

It was a weekday. My mother and father had gone to work. A truck came to our neighborhood. The neighbors had decided to go on a picnic to Belgrade Forest. Could there be greater joy for a child that age? I begged my sister and my brother, who was three years older, to take me with them. In the end, they did.

The moment I climbed onto the back of the truck, a great wave of joy rose inside me. But looking back now, I know that was not just a child’s picnic excitement. It was as if I was approaching an invisible threshold. Of course, I could not understand that at that age. I was just happy.

The forest was beautiful. Children were running everywhere, voices rising, food being taken out of bags, adults chatting among themselves. Light filtering through the trees… That day, life looked to me exactly as it should: simple, clean, joyful.

On the way back, we were on the truck again. Everyone was singing, laughing. The neighbor’s daughter, Feride, had climbed to the very top. She was waving at us. I was watching her.

Then time tore.

I saw Feride falling toward me.

Nothing after that.

Darkness.

A severing.

A loss.

When I opened my eyes, I was in the hospital. They told me later: I had been in a coma for three days. With a child’s mind, I did not know what a coma meant, but I felt as if I had returned from somewhere. Where I had gone was not a dream, but the world I came back to was no longer exactly the same world.

Sometimes you return to the same body, but you cannot return to the same life.

After that accident, a strange unfamiliarity began inside me. The world was the same, but I was looking at it from somewhere else. As if I was seeing everything from behind a thin veil. I could see everything, but I could not fully touch anything.

That day, something I did not yet know the name of began.

Today I know: that was the moment the veil first tore open.

Chapter 2 – The Child After the Accident

The strongest memory from the period after the accident is this: everything felt as if it was happening for the first time.

When I looked at a wall, it was as if I was seeing a wall for the first time. The stones of the street, the shadows of buildings, the faces of people, the coolness of the wind… As if I had never lived before and had just been dropped into this world. To explain it to myself, I said, “my soul changed.” I had no other explanation.

I carried almost nothing from before the accident inside me. That absence was not just a memory gap. It was as if a page had completely closed. The child who remained there was that other child, and I was continuing in his place.

In this new state, I wandered the streets of Istanbul. I was still very young, but fear either did not exist in me or came very late. I walked long distances alone. Looking back now, I think some days I walked nearly twenty kilometers. I was searching for something. I felt it even then.

I wanted to learn the streets, the districts, the roads, the faces, the directions. As if the more places I knew, the less the strangeness inside me would be. But that strangeness never went away.

I always looked upward. At the sky. At the rooftops. At the emptiness. There was a deep, unnamed longing inside me. If I called it homesickness, I was already home. If I called it longing for people, I was already among people. Yet I felt as if I was in exile.

In those years, an image appeared inside me: a large bicycle.

My life resembled a child trying to ride a bicycle whose pedals he could not reach. The bicycle was there. It could move. It could take me somewhere. But I had not grown enough yet. So I waited. I tried to reach. I prepared in silence.

I knew that one day I would reach the pedals.

And when that day came, I would not just start riding.

I would cross a threshold.

Of course, I could not say these things as a child. But that is what I felt. My life had not begun as an ordinary childhood. Or maybe it had, but its meaning changed later.

Sometimes you experience something and understand nothing. But years later, when you look back, you realize that a single metaphor left from your childhood explains your entire life.

My metaphor was this:

The child who could not yet reach the pedals.

Chapter 3 – The Thin Veil

As I grew up, I went to school like everyone else. I had notebooks, classrooms, and people I thought were friends. From the outside, it looked like an ordinary childhood and youth. But a life can look ordinary from the outside and not be lived that way from the inside.

I was always a little on the outside.

Even in the middle of crowds, I felt a thin veil between myself and the world. People talked, I heard them, but sometimes I sensed the vibrations beneath the words more than the words themselves. I could feel the anger inside someone who seemed cheerful, the fear inside someone who was quiet. Sometimes I heard the echo of a sentence before it was spoken.

At first, I thought everyone lived like this. Then I realized that some things in me were unusually open, and some things were missing. Other people connected easily; I observed. They were inside the moment; I often felt the moment a few seconds ahead.

I experienced many déjà vus. But this was not the ordinary feeling of familiarity that people usually mean. Sometimes I felt as if I knew how an event would end before it began. During a conversation, I could sense which sentence would be said next. Once or twice, you call that coincidence. Ten times, you shudder. I experienced this many more times than that.

Still, I could not tell anyone.

After elementary school, I did not have a single friend who could truly carry what was inside me. I am not saying this out of self-pity. It is just one of the simple facts of my life. People were around me, but I was not where they were. So while living among them, I learned to carry the growing silence inside me.

Adolescence passed. Youth passed. Military service passed. Work life, financial struggles, disappointments, unexpected losses… Life became heavy for me, as it does for everyone. But my burden was not just living. It was also carrying everything I could not make sense of while living.

So at some point, I began to feel divided. One side of me lived in the ordinary world: money, work, family, responsibility, fatigue. The other side sensed events before they happened, moved through invisible currents, and stayed silent because there was no language to explain itself.

When you live in two realities at once, you look lonely from the outside.

From the inside, you feel divided.

Chapter 4 – Stripped Bare

As the years passed, life began to test me more harshly. When you are young, you think some losses are temporary. Then one day you realize that some losses do not just take something away; they change you.

I was unemployed for a long time. Unemployment is not just about having no money; it also erodes how you see yourself when you look in the mirror. Then debts came. Even when you lie down at night, invisible accounts lie down beside you. They do not sleep.

In 2021, I sold my house because of debt.

When you lose your house, you do not just lose walls. You lose the shell that holds your history. During that period, I was unemployed, penniless, and for the first time in my life, a sentence formed inside me with terrifying clarity:

The universe was stripping me bare.

But this did not feel like an ordinary destruction. It was as if layers were being peeled off me. My identity, my routines, my sense of security, my habits, everything I held onto… All of it was being removed, leaving me face to face with my naked self.

Later, I found a name for this state:

Dying before death.

When everything is taken from a person, what remains?

I lived inside that question for years.

And right at that moment, life directed me to a door in Kadıköy.

PART TWO

THE SECOND PERSON

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Chapter 5 – The House in Kadıköy

I heard that at the company where my younger brother Cemil worked, a woman named Burcu was looking for someone reliable to take her son Ali to and from school. I went to their house in Kadıköy for the interview. On the surface, it looked like an ordinary job interview. A man trying to survive, turning toward a new opportunity.

But sometimes fate wears the clothes of daily life.

The moment I stepped into that house, something strange happened inside me. I have tried to describe it in many ways over the years, but perhaps the truest sentence is this: I felt as if there was a second person inside me. That person was calmer, clearer. He seemed to know why I was there better than I did.

We talked with Burcu. She explained the child’s routine, the school, the hours, the responsibilities. I answered. As the conversation went on, the second person inside me silently watched everything. Sometimes it felt as if I was the one speaking, but he was the one approving.

I knew I had to take that job.

In fact, I felt I had to be there even if they paid me nothing.

It was a certainty beyond logic.

It was 2021. There was about a month until schools opened. I thought I would just be taking a child to school and bringing him back. But life was about to make me the witness of a much heavier sentence.

Chapter 6 – The Red Light

One day during the school break, Burcu and her work friend Barış were in the car. We had stopped in traffic. The light was red. Nothing looked different from the outside. Istanbul was flowing in its usual rhythm. Cars, lights, people, noise…

Then suddenly, I was not there.

It is hard to describe this state to someone who has not experienced it. Because when you say “I saw something,” people imagine something seen with the eyes. But this was a different kind of seeing. For about ten seconds, I found myself in Hatay. I was standing on top of collapsed buildings, inside a great destruction. There was dust, rupture, pain, and silence. It was not just an image. There was energy too. I felt something flowing out of my body. I began to sweat.

When the light turned green, I returned to the car. But inside, I was no longer in the same place.

I had nothing else to do that day. I parked the car in the parking lot of Özdilek Mall. As I was leaving the parking lot, that state came again – this time stronger. It was as if I had walked into an invisible ball of electricity. I was in Hatay again. This time I stayed longer. I could not hear people’s voices, but I could feel the vibration of their thoughts. It struck my mind like a frequency beyond language.

When I returned, I was drenched in sweat. There were crackling sounds in my head, like an old radio signal. After experiences like this, the body needs time to recover. Wherever the soul went, the body could not follow immediately.

I could not find the strength to move. I called my wife: “Emine, come and pick me up.” My house was close, so it did not take her long to come.

In the evening, while dropping the others off in Kadıköy, I told two people for the first time what I had seen: Burcu and Barış. I told them there would be a great earthquake in Hatay.

It was March 2022.

As I spoke, I could feel how they received my words. But whether they believed me or not did not matter. I had to say what I saw. Because sometimes silence is a heavier burden than speech.

Chapter 6A – Karacaahmet Cemetery

It was April 2022. Burcu and her mother called me and gave me a specific time; they wanted to visit the father’s grave. I picked them up at the appointed time and we set off for Karacaahmet Cemetery. The weather was neither too cold nor too hot. It was one of those clean, lightly breezy spring days that refresh the soul. The cemetery was large and old; tall cypress trees and long tombstones lay under the shade of plane trees. The silence was heavy but peaceful.

Burcu and her mother stood by the father’s grave and began to pray. Their eyes were closed, murmuring softly. I waited at a distance where I could see them, leaning against the car.

After a while, another couple came to a nearby grave. They were clearly married; they called each other “dear” and “love.” They began to clean the grave and pull out weeds.

At one point, the woman looked around and started walking toward me. Her intention was clear: she was probably looking for one of those children often seen in cemeteries who water graves for tips. She was coming to ask, “Where are they?”

I raised my voice so she would hear me clearly and said:

“Do you see the wall? There is a bucket a little further ahead. Fill it with water. There is a fountain up there, go and fill it. If you want to water your grave, do it yourselves.”

The woman froze where she stood. She stood there as if nailed to the spot. Her face turned pale. For a few seconds, she did not know what to say. Then suddenly she turned around and ran back to her husband. She was very frightened. I had practically read her mind. When she realized there were no children expecting tips in the cemetery, she could not understand how someone like me knew this so clearly.

After the prayers ended, Burcu and her mother returned to the car. As we set off, Burcu turned to me and asked:

“Şükrü Bey, what did you say to that woman? She looked very scared.”

I told her what had happened. The rest of that day passed ordinarily, but something had become clear inside me: sometimes what rises inside me is not just a guess. It is like a current that reaches others’ needs before I do. We left that day behind with a strange kind of adrenaline.

Chapter 6B – Near Fenerbahçe Stadium

It was the third week of May 2022, a Thursday. Around 5:30 in the afternoon. The air was still warm, and Istanbul’s oppressive spring evening was slowly beginning to settle. My work had ended at four that day. Burcu’s car had become very dirty. I said to her, “Your car is dirty, shall we wash it?” She had her own car, and I had mine. “Okay,” she said.

I took the car to a car wash very close to Fenerbahçe Stadium. I left the car and waited outside, my hands in my pockets, looking around. I did not know the service at all; it was just the first place I saw.

At that moment, a woman in a pitiful state collapsed onto the sidewalk. She sat there, exhausted and out of breath. I looked at her carefully. In that moment, I saw everything.

The woman was looking for a man of about 1.80 meters, thin-built, with a mental disorder. The man had run away from home. His beard was short and dirty. He walked with his hands folded over his stomach, in a strange way. On his feet were the woman’s black high-heeled slippers, size 37. The man was heading toward MADO.

I approached the woman. I kept my voice soft but clear:

“Are you looking for a mentally disturbed man, about 1.80 tall, thin, walking with his hands on his stomach, wearing your size 37 black high-heeled slippers?”

The woman froze as if she had seen a ghost. Her eyes widened. Her voice came out stammering:

“How… how do you know? I don’t even know you…”

Blushing a little but with the pain coming from inside me, I answered:

“Why is he wearing your slippers? I see him, his feet hurt when he walks.”

The woman sighed deeply. Her eyes filled with tears.

“I hid his shoes so he wouldn’t run away. But he took my slippers and ran away anyway…”

I felt sad. Truly sad.

“Then put him in an institution,” I said. “They will take better care of both him and you.”

“I tried, but they wouldn’t take him,” the woman said, her voice trembling.

“Keep trying,” I insisted. “Even if you have to push, they will take him eventually. Don’t give up.”

Suddenly the woman flinched in fear. As if I was going to harm her, she quickly ran to another man nearby and threw herself next to him. She clung to him as if seeking safety. Her eyes were still on me, looking with fear.

I just smiled slightly. I did not say anything else. She could not understand what I was thinking anyway. That “second person” inside me was silently watching everything. Seeing is sometimes not a gift but a heavy piece of knowledge. Hard to carry, alienating even from yourself.

Chapter 7 – Frequency

The visions did not end there. In the following months, the ordinary flow of my life became increasingly intertwined with the invisible layer beneath it. I began to sense not just people’s faces but the emotional atmosphere they carried around them. Sometimes thoughts that did not belong to me got stuck in my mind: someone’s fear, someone’s anger, someone’s hidden pain.

I made a mistake. Because of it, Burcu received a harsh warning from her business partner, Hakkı Bey. I apologized. But after that incident, the tension Burcu felt toward me seemed to have caught my frequency. It is hard to explain. Even unspoken thoughts left traces in me.

Fatoş abla also started treating me coldly. One day, while waiting at the door, I thought to myself, “I must have upset her without knowing.” I rang the bell. When she opened the door, I hugged her without thinking.

“Abla, I think I upset you,” I said.

At that moment, a flood of information about her flowed into me. Her father. His illness. Alzheimer’s. The ambulance waiting outside the house. The closeness of his last breath… All of it, in an instant, not like a film reel but like lived reality transferred directly into my body.

The next day, they invited me for coffee. Burcu, Fatoş abla, and I were in the kitchen. They asked what I wanted to drink. Normally, I never like Turkish coffee. But suddenly a strange urge rose inside me.

“Let’s have Turkish coffee this time,” I said. Then I added: “Abla, I also know how to read coffee grounds. I’ll read yours.”

I did not know how to read coffee grounds at all. But the second person inside me seemed to be moving independently of me. We drank the coffee. Fatoş abla turned her cup upside down and placed it on the table. We waited for it to cool.

I had formed a plan in my head. I would tell what I had seen about her father as if it were appearing in the cup. I took the cup in my hand and began to speak:

“Abla, two people will leave your house. The first to leave will be a man. He will go very far and never come back. After some time, he will call his wife to join him, and she will go too.”

Fatoş abla immediately interjected: “That is my son.”

But I knew it was not her son. I asked softly:

“Abla, does your son live in your house?”

“No, he has his own house.”

“But abla, the one who will leave lives in your house.”

She thought for a moment. Then, probably remembering that her father had Alzheimer’s, it seemed illogical to her. “You really did it, Şükrü,” she said, and laughed.

Three days later, on a Saturday, Burcu called me.

“Şükrü Bey, Fatoş abla’s father fell down the stairs. He is in serious condition, in the hospital in a coma,” she said.

I waited a bit. Then I called to offer my condolences.

Fatoş abla answered with a tired and sad voice. “Şükrü,” she said, “the one who left the house was my father.”

“Abla, think of the good days you spent with your father. He will feel those memories, and they will help him heal,” I said.

I did not even believe the lie myself. I knew he was going to die. I hung up. I was angry at myself: “Why do you stick your nose into everything, Şükrü?”

He stayed in intensive care for two days and died.

After that day, I could feel that the people in that house looked at me differently. I was no longer just an employee or a familiar face. I had become the carrier of something they could not name. Perhaps frightening. Perhaps ominous. Perhaps just unsettling.

But the only sentence growing inside me was this:

I was not calling death.

I was just seeing the approaching shadow.

Chapter 8 – Final Warning

In September 2022, it was time to leave. We gathered in that same kitchen again: Burcu, her mother, Fatoş abla, the children, and me. This time, for a farewell.

Sometimes goodbyes are made heavier not by what is said but by what is left unsaid.

As we talked, the veil opened again. For a moment, I left the room. I was among collapsed buildings. Hatay. Destruction. Rubble. And this time, the sense of timing was so clear that it felt as if someone was hammering it into my mind.

Burcu’s voice brought me back.

“Şükrü Bey,” she asked, “is there anything else you want to tell us?”

I will never forget that question. Because sometimes a person does not answer a sentence; they answer fate.

“Yes,” I said. “There is. I have been telling you since March. I am telling you for the last time. At the end of the first week of February or the beginning of the second week, there will be a very big earthquake in Hatay. Many people will die. Please warn your acquaintances. Let them warn others. Save people. Help. I beg you.”

When I finished, I felt the air in the room change. Sometimes you cannot even recognize your own voice. I thought again that it was the second person inside me speaking.

As I left the house and walked down the street, a great weight had been lifted from me. I had said what I saw. But at the same time, another weight had settled: the dark trace I had left in that house.

As I walked, only one sentence echoed inside me:

I am not a bad person.

But some sentences echo only inside a person. No one hears them outside.

PART THREE

WHEN THE VEIL TORE COMPLETELY

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Chapter 9 – February 6th

On the morning of February 6, 2023, I woke up to messages on my phone. There had been an earthquake. Kahramanmaraş. Hatay. Destruction. Loss. Thousands of lives…

As I read the messages, none of the emotions I expected were inside me. No fear. No panic. No surprise. It was as if a human layer had been removed from me. But this was not numbness. It was the silent void you fall into when you come face to face with a very great truth.

That morning, I understood that it was time to say goodbye to the doubt I had carried for years.

I was not crazy.

I was not a liar.

I was just a man who could sometimes see behind the veil.

And that morning, the veil tore completely.

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Chapter 10 – The Body That Believes

A person is tested not only by what they see but also by their body. I experienced this years ago. I was diagnosed with inflammatory rheumatoid arthritis. They gave me medication. I used it for one day, then stopped. A voice inside me said I needed to do something different.

I kept repeating to myself:

“I am well. We are well. I do not have an illness.”

After some time, I went for a check-up, and they said there was no trace of the disease.

I am not telling this as a challenge or a boast. I am just placing it here as something I lived. Because over time, I learned this: the body hears the invisible language a person speaks to themselves. Cells respond not only to chemistry but also to belief.

The body works according to what you believe.

At least sometimes.

Chapter 11 – Kundalini

After the earthquake, new sensations began in my body. Itching around the hip bone. A slow movement upward from the base of the spine. Vibrations rising along the spinal cord. An electric feeling at the back of my head. Burning in my eyes. At night, a strange pulse in the middle of my chest, different from the heartbeat I was used to.

At first, I did not understand what was happening. I began to research. I came across spiritual teachings, chakras, energy centers, and something called kundalini awakening.

For the first time, what I had experienced had a language in the outside world.

The fire I had carried for years without a name now had a name.

In May 2025, I encountered some teachings. Some words, concepts, and maps began to frame what I had lived for so long but could not describe. What I had experienced no longer looked like random spiritual turbulence. It looked like an awakening with its own inner order.

Naming something does not solve everything.

But sometimes it is enough to convince you that you are not losing your mind.

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Chapter 12 – Time Locks

Sometimes directly, sometimes through silence, people asked the same question: If all of this exists, why does not everyone see it? Why do not realities collide? Why do the veils always stay closed?

I called them time locks.

According to the intuition forming inside me, existence was not a straight line. It was a grid. There were corridors, passages, locked timelines. The reality we live in is just one of them. Not the only reality, just the one open to us.

Sometimes, through certain shocks, traumas, or energetic rises, those locks loosened. This had happened in my life too: the accident, the coma, losses, collapse, loneliness, awakening…

Perhaps some doors only open when you have been stripped naked enough.

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Chapter 13 – Lighthouses

For years, I asked myself the same question: Why me? Why these visions? Why this loneliness?

The answer did not come from books. It did not descend as a doctrinal sentence. It came more as a feeling. When I held trees, when I stood on the earth, in the silences where I sought what no person could give me, a knowledge flowed through me.

Some people come to this world not to intervene but to balance it.

I began to feel this about myself:

Like a lighthouse.

A lighthouse does not force anyone to come near it. It does not give orders. It simply shines. Its presence may not erase the approaching darkness, but it reveals it. Those who wish can benefit from its light; those who do not can pass by.

My task was not to save. Perhaps that was why I was alone. Because when you do not play the role of a savior, the world considers you unnecessary. Yet sometimes simply existing, simply carrying light, simply changing the vibration of a place – that too is a task.

Lighthouses look alone.

But they all illuminate the same darkness.

Chapter 14 – 2042 and Beyond

Certain dates began to form inside me. Some transitions. Some closings and openings. For me, 2042 was not an end date. It was a threshold of completion. It was as if the great upheaval the world is passing through would reach a peak by that time, and afterward, the world would move toward a different order.

I am not saying this like a scientific report. This is the language of a cosmic calendar appearing inside me.

I feel there will be great losses.

Great upheavals.

Great sifting.

But at the same time, I feel that a preparation continues.

Preparation for the next threshold.

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Chapter 15 – The New Human

Around the year 2111, another piece of knowledge is forming inside me. I may not see that time. But I feel its seed. A type of human born with a higher frequency, with different centers of perception open from birth, more inclined toward cooperation…

Many people may find these sentences exaggerated. They should. Every era first laughs at what comes after it, then resists it, and finally accepts it.

I will not be that new kind of human. But perhaps I am one of those who carry water to its seeds.

Sometimes a person lives to carry water to a tree whose fruit they will never see.

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Chapter 15A – There Is Another Me Inside Me

What I have called the “second person” in this book is not something new. It was just the awakening, in my life, of something known for a very long time.

There is a verse by Yunus Emre:

“There is another me inside me, beyond me.”

That is exactly it.

There is a self sleeping inside us. Our body, most of the time, moves with a high ego – a shell closed to frequencies, ignoring the invisible. But when the soul takes over the body – when that other inside us wakes up – we begin to perceive frequencies. As we gain experience, we read them. Feeling is not enough; it turns into knowing.

As described in Kryon’s books: those who complete their test lose their previous two angel helpers. In their place come three new angels. The handover period between these two systems is given as three months.

During those three months, the person experiences:

· Loss of possessions.

· Separation from spouse and friends.

· Loss of job.

· Complete loneliness.

Another name for this is seclusion.

And the universe does this perfectly. Not without shaking, but shaking just enough. It rearranges everything around the one who has passed the test. Sometimes it hurts. Sometimes it surprises. But it is never random.

This inner journey is not something a person chooses willingly. It is simply given. And the universe does not take back what it gives. Neither the gift, nor the burden, nor the loneliness.

And by the way: illness no longer visits your body. Because your seven chakras are open. This closes the body off from external influences and protects it. Your body is no longer just yours; it is also the home of that other inside you. And that home is more protected than ever before.

Chapter 16 – Loneliness

If you asked me what was the hardest part of all this, I would not say the accident, not the earthquake, not the changes in my body.

The hardest was loneliness.

Not just being misunderstood, but knowing that the moment you start explaining, you have already lost. Seeing in others’ eyes not yourself but the possibility of fear at what you say. Not having a language that can truly carry what overflows inside you.

At some point, a person stops talking to people and begins talking to silence. Sometimes to a tree, sometimes to a wall, sometimes to the sky. Because everything alive has a frequency, and everyone who stays alone long enough begins to learn this.

I learned it too.

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Chapter 17 – The Wise One Who Hugs Trees

One day, while walking, I hugged a tree. People saw. They said, “He has gone mad.” I heard them. But at that moment, the voices of the people were weaker than the knowledge coming from the tree.

The tree spoke to me not with words but with feeling, and it said this:

You are not crazy.

You are just free.

That sentence settled very deeply inside me. Because sometimes freedom means not fitting into the measures of society. If you see what others do not see, love what they do not love, and stay where others are afraid, the price of freedom is loneliness.

Still, it is freedom.

I loved trees.

I loved people.

I loved the world.

Even if they did not understand me, even if they feared me, even if they called me crazy.

Perhaps what kept all of this in balance was this:

Not giving up on love.

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EPILOGUE

The Day I Press the Pedal

This book is not an end. It is the first turning of a long silence into sentences.

I no longer see my life as a straight line. Everything is cyclical. Some dates do not just remain on the calendar; they echo inside me. Some events do not happen just once; they open, close, and return. And in the middle of all this, I still live inside the same image that has stayed with me since childhood:

A large bicycle.

A pedal waiting to be pressed.

A road not yet finished.

But now I know this:

One day, I will press that pedal.

When that day comes, I will not hear those who call me crazy. I will not carry loneliness as I used to. I will not even wonder whether my feet reach the pedals. I will simply ride.

I do not know where I will go.

But that no longer frightens me.

Because once the veil truly tears, it never closes again as it was.

The universe does not take back every gift it gives.

And I, like a lighthouse,

will continue to shine.

---

Final Note

This text was born from events lived, felt, and witnessed between 1967 and 2025. Some dates, some moments, and some testimonies are real. But the deepest truth of this book is not in the records kept outside; it is in the trace left inside a person.

Because every life is first lived on the outside,

but only later finds its meaning inside.