Tuğba Durukan

by Robin Bolt

What is there? What was there?

A limited search.

De-localized and wrenched accesses to existence.

What does this do to me?

A fallback to predefined worlds.

A seemingly fixed script dictates my existence.

How can it be to believe without believing?

Double languages, a life in between.

One foot fixed in one country.

The other leg in a floating step,

searching for stability in my reality and truth.

Which gaps are filled, even overfilled?

My lettering anchors the expressions of my torn self.

Language lends an image to my search.

But is language the adequate expression of all realities?