Point of Disappearance
When the void calls, it doesn’t scream. It exhales. Slowly, like an old god tired of pleading. And you go—not for meaning, not for salvation—but to make sure that the world is still capable of not answering. Kursunlu is exactly that answer. Or its absence.
Where water falls into itself, and moss grows on the traces of hope, nature looks at you like you look at yourself—with disbelief.
Landscapes of Hopelessness
You leave Antalya behind. Its air-conditioned vitality, slathered in sunscreen. The road stretches northeast, winding between shopping malls and olive trees, until it disappears into the green abyss.
Kurshunlu Waterfall Nature Park is not a park; it’s a portal. The entrance through a wooden arch, like in childhood—like in bad movies where they promise magic but deliver crunchy snacks. Here, they give you moss, moisture, paths that lead into over-wet nothing. Everything here slides—stones, leaves, time.
The Scream of Stones
The main waterfall falls reluctantly. Not as a spectacle. As fatigue. The water doesn’t fall—it retreats. From everything. From us.
You watch the streams sliding down the basalt wall, and suddenly catch yourself thinking: maybe this is the most honest movement of your entire week. It proves nothing. It simply happens.
It smells of earth, humus, and something animal. You breathe deeply, as though hoping to inhale an answer—for what, you don’t even know. Somewhere nearby, a butterfly exchanges glances with a lizard. They know you’re here as an intruder. But for now, they tolerate it.
Shadows at the Edge of the Mind
Why are we so drawn to water that falls? It’s not meditation; it’s rejection. Kursunlu is a waterfall that doesn’t care. No height, no noise, no photogenicness. Just transparent melancholy, flowing down and disappearing into the shadow of trees.
You catch your reflection in the green water. It’s shaky, like your own confidence in existence. Perhaps you are simply an artifact of the route, a statistic on the navigator, a flashback in God’s mind. And in this forest, full of wet apathy, you are closer to yourself than anywhere else.
Traces on the Map
Coordinates of the Void: 20 km northeast of Antalya
How to get there: by car, bus, or taxi. The entrance is visible from the road and marked.
Working hours: typically from 8:00 AM to 6:00 PM
Route: a circular path, about 1.5 km—feels like eternity in the heat
What to bring: comfortable shoes, water, serenity
What matters: it’s not about “wow,” it’s about “ah, here it is”
Echo in the Void
I left Kurshunlu not refreshed, not at peace—but as if I’d been demagnetized. Like someone had removed the tension from my body, but left all the tension inside. Kurshunlu does not heal. It watches. Like a mirror, in which the green flesh of the world dissects your notions of beauty.
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