Beloved Reader,
I am writing these lines to you in the attic of an old house, on an architect’s inclined table positioned right in front of an inclined window, under the inclined roof.
While writing, I am not looking at my fingers, but at the screen. When I am not looking at the screen, I look through the window that starts where the screen ends. During the day, I see the sky through the glass. It is sometimes all white, sometimes all blue, sometimes blue and white altogether, sometimes grey, and sometimes the color of earth. During the evenings, I don’t see anything but my reflection in the same glass. I mostly write when it rains at nights. Somewhere a radio is on, and the words, the sounds, and the spaces I hear in the songs stir my soul. Sometimes something weird happens: my consciousness gets stuck. I want all I imagine and all I cannot imagine to mix with your imaginings in these letters and spaces that I absurdly hold in hands.
I wonder if there is a way for you to read me. For some reason, you are always returning to your own image, looking at your photos, liking things, commenting on them, sharing them. Amongst all your doings, if you somehow encounter this letter, know that you are always in my thoughts—in every line and every word that I write, even and especially in the empty spaces amongst the words. The truth is that this love lives in my consciousness, and what is typed by my fingertips is a compossible life for us.
They say that everything can be read on the face as if we have all been sentenced to one face for hundreds of years. So far, I haven’t stood in front of a mirror to look at my face; instead, I have waited for you to show up and reflect me back to myself through yourself. Writing this letter to you, I feel that another hundred years of solitude would not be easy to hold. If you understand me here and now, I say to myself, how might we unfold in a hundred years? Just imagine. Aren’t we the people of the same wor-l-d, after all? Here is a secret: to understand is to enjoy in this love. Even if they are not synonyms, they are homonyms. Just like the sounds we make when we enjoy and when we understand.
I hope we reunite someday, somewhere.
Beloved Author,
*The opening scene of MyFace Bookperformance (2012 TR, 2014 EN) © by Çiğdem Mirol, 2026. That original version of this letter has appeared on Mimesis (Ankara based) since 2012, and The Creativity Post (New York based) since 2013, and from 2026 on, it remains preserved within Bookperformance’s archival-field and is available upon request.