Desire is a Map I Keep Folding the Wrong Way Up

Desire for new music, desire for forgotten books, desire for old things that feel new again after a while. Once, in a used bookstore, I bought a worn copy of Balzac’s Lost Illusions, its pages thumbed through by countless hands, marginalia scribbled here and there, its bulk destined to be repurposed as a doorstop in my one-bedroom apartment.

Desire for a trip to Iceland, desire for the taste of a perfect plum, desire for finding one quiet corner in the whole of West Philly where I can just sit down and chill with a cup of tea. Desire to write a song that means something dear to someone dear; desire to have someone worth writing a song for. Shout out to that girl at the Sufjan Stevens concert who was standing in the back row with a half-full drink in her hands, humming a song so sweet it made me dizzy even under all that noise. I thought, “I want to create something that makes people feel this way.” Which means: "I want to mean this much to someone." Which means: “I’m not sure if I matter anymore.”

Desire for open spaces, desire for clear skies, desire to swim in those oceans I’ve never seen. Desire for the soft buzz of a city at night, the way the lights blur into one big blob before sleep. Desire to climb on the hull of a ship, desire to step onto a subway train somewhere crowded like Tokyo or London or Istanbul, and feel the rush of life around me, like the world is wide and bright out there and waiting for me to show up. Desire to be young again, desire to not know which direction to go and be okay with it. Desire to disappear somewhere beautiful and never return. Desire to live in a town I’ve never been, to pack a bag and never look back. Desire to thank that stranger who stopped me in the middle of Gatwick Airport and pointed at a map of Jakarta in his hands and said, “Get lost here.”

Desire for maps I can’t read correctly, for the embarrassment of turning one around and realizing I have been holding the world upside down. Desire for wrong turns. Desire for the blue dot on my phone to stop pulsing for once, to let me be a little endangered by my own mistakes. Desire for a small freedom in not knowing where I am, in having to choose between a bakery, a bench, a stray kiss or a stranger’s kindness, and a train platform full of non-Latin signs.

Desire for moments suspended in time, for stillness that feels like eternity, for the way the world pauses when you hold your breath underwater. Desire to jump again into the treacherous straits of Crater Lake with you and dare you to dive deeper, no timers, no rules. Desire to remember how I resurfaced after a minute, gasping for air, and how you stayed down for another two or three, your body just visible beneath the surface, adding colors to the ripples. I could see your member under the dappled water, looking snaky and surreal. When you finally swam up, you said, “I thought I died there for a sec,” then added, like it was nothing, “I felt like I was somewhere else.” I just assumed you too wanted to get lost in your own way.

Desire for small adventures, for mysteries waiting to be solved by someone who has the heart for it. Desire for the moments that don’t make sense until years later, like when my aunt taught me to cook her traditional mutancana without bothering to explain why she cooked it differently from everyone else in the family; she just did, and now, after years of cooking the same recipe for my daughter, I understand why. Desire for a stranger’s smile endowed upon me from across a crowded room. Desire for a voice that carries something tender and real in it, for a change. Desire to listen to your voice again at a bus stop outside of Santa Fe. Desire to hear stories I’ll never forget. Desire to cross the border with you, to visit some old friend. Desire to know more, to understand what people mean when they mention ‘home’.

Desire for the objects people carry from one life into another: a chipped bowl wrapped in newspaper, a photograph of someone special leaning against a car that has long been wrecked in an accident just outside of Çeşme, an heirloom spice tin with the label rubbed off, a sweater that still smells faintly of another city. Desire to believe these things are enough to prove I was here, a part of this world, that I was loved where I belonged, even after I left it.

Desire for connection, desire for closeness, for moments of shared silence. Desire for a conversation that lasts until dawn. Desire for words that fit together like a puzzle, even when they weren’t supposed to. Desire for stories that go untold.

Desire for truth. Desire for lies spoken softly. Desire for a place to return to.

When I was eleven, I was fascinated by the idea of space, not outer space as we know it but the void that surrounds and glues us all together. I’d nurtured a desire to get lost into a cloud. I was obsessed with the stars that died even before we could touch them, the way the universe was so big and full of questions that can’t be answered. These days, I’m fascinated by the way people try to make sense of it all, even the most trivial, feeble thingslike how to fold a fitted sheet without getting annoyed by it or how astrology really works for retired planets.

Desire to understand how we’re all part of something so big we’ll never understand it fully, but we still try. Desire to blend in.

Sometimes, in the evenings, I’ll take a walk just to hear the rustle of the leaves, the soft chirp of insects that still remind me of home, which means Izmir, Turkey, which means lawn flamingoes, which means mosquitoes of a concerning size, which means a buzzing, constant drone of nature, left and right, dead or alive. These days I realize I find a kind of peace in those small sounds, in how the world feels steady and still, as though I never stirred a ripple, as though nothing has changed. Maybe that’s the real miracle, that something stays the same despite all the storms it weathers.

Desire to know what lies ahead, in the dark. Desire to not wander alone anymore.