Category Archives: Letters

Letter to Family

Greetings dear family, and I say family for I know that these words will travel from ear to ear, echoing over and over again among you, as they are analyzed and dissected, in search of some deeply rooted reason, perhaps a clue, to help once and for all solve the problem that is me, or just a faint glimmer of light to guide you further into the heart of the matter, even though there exists no such thing; nothing here that matters.

It appears that within my mind, I am still extremely selfish; and I’m now certain that this will never change. I’ve come to believe that our selfishness, as innate as it is, never truly lets us go. As we age, we may gain awareness towards it, and are then able to control it and keep it quiet, but it will always be there, breathing and keeping us in love with ourselves.

One day, while chatting with Manizheh online, she swore to me on her life that Behrouz loves me dearly and so does she. There’s not a speck of doubt in my being regarding this love. Matter of fact, it is my opinion that we all have love for one another, but our loves differ entirely in perspective, and we’re not even in the same book of love, let alone on the same page. Exupery defined it as, “…Staring outward, together and in the same direction.” In the absence of this truth between us, what are we to call our love now? Habit…? Attachment…? Some sense of obligation, sentencing us to one another in the name of love, inside a house where we shall always owe each other a smile…? Or should I say four houses? Let us not speak of this. Let us not continue to fish for reasons and seek solutions; let us leave the root of it all alone, whatever it may be. Is there a need?

Someone, somewhere, once said that guilt is essential for human existence. It might have been Woody Allen in one of his movies. Either way, as I stare blankly at my hands, I’m struck with an abundant army of guilty fibers and regretful particles and pores, which are my belongings. Created by me, they are solely mine to bear and heal, and believe it or not, I no longer run around frantically within my head, firing the blame at all those who object my ways. No where in my being are you held responsible for my blood soaked hands. It is fair to say, “You are what you do, and who you are, you are for yourself.”  We’re all well aware of many acts of mine, and there exist other truths and deeds, but let us leave them lying hidden. Allow me to carry my bag of broken bones, for I’m the one who broke them! Here now, with that put forth, I think it is fair of me to add: Dear family, please do not make me feel guilty about not helping out with your dreams and comfort, or not living up to your standards. I’ll be attending an “all you can eat guilt buffet” every night for the rest of my life, where they shall serve me flashbacks of moments and nightmares from my past…I don’t I’ll have room for dessert!  At times it fascinates me, how we can often speak with such admiration and fondness of western societies, specifically about western families and how they interact with one another, and how their children are brought up, many of them on their own once of legal age. Every place is different, but tell me, how are we able to admire, but not adopt? Thus far in life, I have proven to not know much about anything, but I may know your answer. I think you’re going to pull the “culture card.” It is in our nature, right? As Iranians…? It is engraved in our eastern emotions and flows within our scorching blood, is that it? There’s not helping the sun, rising the east and setting in the west. It just might be that as Iranians, we must always see a mountain for the sunrise to make sense; any mountain in Iran that is…

I’m rambling now, steering far off point. Once again preaching furiously, with a sting if I might add, as if I’m the all-knowing. And believe it or not Behrouz, I can hear you saying, “Be minimal! Keep it simple!” Well, it is not in my nature. It is not my style, I’ve come to learn.

Allow me to state an obvious fact: Behrouz you are a smart man, a genius, many would say. Personally, I think you’re one of the few people I know who has true faith, in anything that is, surpassing any religious fucker in that category any day of the week, simply because your faith has nothing to do with your fears. Hence. a smart man has no reason to be afraid.

On another note, I’m sure you’ve already forgiven me for disturbing the peace in our family, or perhaps, that is a bit cruel of me to say. I have done disturbing things, that’s for certain; but peace in our family..? As far back as my memory allows me to venture- and mind you, the visions are blurry for we moved around quite a lot- there was of course peace and calm, but only in pieces, scattered here and there and never among all of us together. Looking back now, I can barely remember my childhood, but within the recent past, it is rather easy to trace the struggle and see the slow motion replay of every step taken, every maneuver made and experimental method used to shape the form of our family and to draw the line, upon which we were to march. That straight and perfected line, which Behrouz would often mention during that time; that morbid time that now arouses in me laughter. What have done to be worthy of so  many people trying, so many times in so many ways. Yes, of course, I am full of talent. Show me one who isn’t…So many attempts made, so many paths taken and roles played. Give him space: I was left alone and scouted from afar. Be his friend, speak of no expectations:  I was hugged and kissed and handed a permit to smoke, but I should’ve known myself at that point. I should have at least seen the wrinkles in your smiles at that time, the tension within your thoughts. It is of no use, keep him grounded and in sight, scold the demons out of his head: and so it goes, I was taken to Shahrekord and kept confined and under observation upon the rooftop of our beloved land, but it seems that all the results learned were left ignored for some reason, perhaps due to the enormity of my talents, and hugs and kisses greeted me once again, along with the freedom to smoke. You then let me be, more so than you had ever done before. Funnily enough, even then I strived to spend more of my time is solitude, fabricating facts outside of our familiar frame, far from the father of our fantastic factory; or should I say, four fantastic factories? Deep down inside, where one almost always remains soft…I wish I could pull out of my pocket some proof; what I mean is a piece of paper that proposes an answer, as to why I’ve chosen to remain a question mark for all these years. You might be happy to know that I’ve done some research, but still, I would much rather say, “I’m possessed!” and hope we could all just leave it at that. However, even I know, that is only partially the case. There are too many factors, all around and at play, front to back and overlapping, they muster mazes out of miniscule moments, and deep wells out of incidents in time, occurrences and actions that have the potential to expand within the mind, and ultimately consume years out of one’s character.

Let us take a breath, the horizon has yet to show itself…

Behrouz, for nights on end now, I have pondered upon your sorrow, for you had said that you are happy for me being happy, but sorrowful for yourself….be sorrowful? I must admit, and I’ve said it before, you truly know how to write, and those who know how to write well, can often find pathways leading to the insides of people. You are quite the skillful master, even when it comes to breaking the heart of a heartless individual such as myself, and yet in the most through provoking of ways. It is true; your last letter brought to life many hours worth of thoughts and recollections, but I’m somewhat ashamed to say that I still haven’t stumbled upon the reason, that rock of certainty that justifies you feeling sorry for yourself. Could your sorrow by any chance, fall into the category of things that I’m never supposed to understand? At times I think this might be it, but the greater part of my being is always eager to ask you, “Why?” As childish as that may sound, when you’re lost without an answer, you might have no choice but to turn to one of your oldest and most curious companions, the word why…That is only, if you truly care to know.

Shall I allow myself to tread further down this dreadful path of disrespect? I pause, closing my eyes briefly as I inhale smoke long and deep, taking into consideration once again, my pair of blood soaked hands, and the stubborn stone on which I stand and have stood for so long relentlessly, I shall exhale the poison by saying, “It is my opinion father that your sorrow for yourself is rather pathetic. It bears not a speck of your genius, not a drop of your intellect, in my opinion.”

Have I hurt you now? Truthfully, I don’t think I can, but I guess in a moment, anything is possible. Simply single moments formed our distance, and so it goes, in a moment anything can happen. Moments and moments, all as insignificant as the emotions they rouse within us. Can you do me favor, for merely a moment then? For a moment, now, can you please refrain from declaring your sorrow, in any manner or form, and explain to me instead why it is that you love me so…? I’m an idiot, incapable of unmasking such mysteries, and quite frankly, most often of the time, I’m empty of all care. I am not one of your accomplishments gone to hell, so why so gloomy now? There is theory in my mind, a thorn of a thought, and mind you, I’m an idiot, but still an idiot who often remembers things and details, such as your nickname during your university years. Behrouz ‘Troubleshooter’ Salimi; throughout your life, problems defined you, for it was your soul that sought solutions. “Could this be it?” I wonder, but not with sense of selfish pride or sadistic pleasure, but rather with the eyes of a stranger, residing outside of our circle, the indifferent joy of an analyst. I wonder, “Could I have left him clueless? Was I the one problem in his life, for which he never found the answer?” Being the creator of your confusion, I must admit, it is a perplexing state. Being the man that you are, you’ll never truly believe that there exists no answer to your youngest problem. No. Personally, I don’t think this will ever happen. Perfectionists- true perfectionists that is- will always blame themselves. Isn’t that right? Most people would hear this notion and think to themselves that perfectionists must be rather depressing individuals, who almost always pass on with regret, never having done enough, every moment, all the time and always the pillar of blame in their own minds. I think this is true, but very much like all other truths, it isn’t absolute, meaning that it’s not entirely true.

Even to me it is astonishing what is happening here. It seems as if I’m falling angrily into an endless pit of confessions, or perhaps all of my spiteful ramblings are merely a means, in which to mock and make monsters out of my loved ones. Ah, who knows…? Look at who we are and wonder how we’ve come this far…All in all, I tend not to suppress such sighs of nostalgia, so in case you wondering, all withered and worn out with worry, be troubled no longer. Know that you are still present, and from time to time, each of you makes an appearance in my head, for which I may not have prepared even a single, simple welcome, but regardless of my carelessness, you are still entitled the stage and within your moments in the theater of my thoughts, as you “Strut and fret,” and often make noise, shouting inside a dark space of extreme character and depth that may have me somewhere inside it, I remain but your humble spectator, smiling enthusiastically among the audience. It is of no surprise to me, the unexpected the thought of you is of no bother whatsoever. After all, we were time spent, and we, were time spent away.

There is worry in the eyes of love. Mother, I am well aware of the love you possess.I’m aware now that love possesses judgmental eyes that often worry and could easily come to hate, but of course, the eyes of love would much rather love. I have stories to tell; the people, the adventures, the chilling absence of togetherness, I have come to grasp in the year that has passed. The irony of it all is a killer. All this pain perhaps…No, most definitely there was no need for all this pain. No pride in it now, but I can still smile. I still have it in me…Where am I going with all this that is the meaning of love and change? One thing is for sure, and I know this now and it provides pride to declare, “I know nothing!” Do we really think about things or do we just make decisions because it feels right in the gut? Should I keep going with this letter, which will ultimately cause you either to place me in a higher throne of literary potential (which I deserve), or it’ll provoke you to say, “To hell with him, the inconsiderate prick!” ( Again a truth I am worthy of hearing.) ??

My dear family, dear people of Iran, I failed to understand you. I will dare to call it that, a failure, even though I know that in order to fail, once must try. Try, I did not. You must want things in life. Anything…What have I come to want now? The few years I spent in Iran, taught me all about the time we invest in the thoughts of one another. Some nights I stay awake and wonder about the conversations between you now. Here now…

Here now, I think I’m in need of someone to harness my thoughts, or put down the horse in my head. Can I ask you to be proud of me? I will help you soon to be. In the course of this letter, which has taken me about two months to write, due to laziness and my scattered mind frame, I seem to have lost myself, my point. Oh that’s right, there was no point. It may have started out of anger, with the intent of revenge perhaps. I flooded it with sarcasm and painful notions, yet again proving my age, and now…Now, I can write to you of my smile, the intensity of which does not allow me to gather in words the entire essence of it all.

I am loved dear family, and I have become a nowhere man.

I am sorry,

Regardless of my talent with words,

Honesty is often the greatest poetry…

Try, I did not,

Proud, you’re soon to be.

 

Affectionately,

 

Sasan

 

Posted in Letters | 8,053 Comments

Father

Some mornings, the thought of you rises, often before the birds, before the soft blanket of blue is pulled away, and most people are still snoring in a clueless comfort. Yes, I think of you sometimes. I think of you coming into my room. I think of you standing over my bed. I think of you saying: “One two three, one two three.”

Tell me Behrouz, who are we? Surely, I have never been what others hoped for me to be. Surely, I have rarely cared. Surely, there are sides of me that have hurt you, and surely, there are faces in me that you have never seen.

I have never had a hand (enthusiastic and driven) in your work. I am in no way a part of your success. I have only lived off what you have made.

“Listen to your heart,” you said to me, “Listen to that voice…”

If only I knew at that point how many voices would greet me later on in my head; the slithering devils in my veins!

I hold no grudge against you Behrouz. How can I? All we have is due to your hard work. Everything else lies in the individual decisions we have made and the personal paths we have taken. It is true that I have grown distant; it is blatantly obvious, but I must say, it didn’t happen overnight. Like I said to you in my first letter, over a year ago (which I am sure was read but never understood…), “There are too many factors all around and at play; front to back and overlapping, they muster mazes out of miniscule moments and deeps wells out of distinct incidents in time (occurrences/ actions) that have the potential to expand within the mind and ultimately consume years out of one’s character.”

           

From afar, I am proud of you and all the work you have done. From afar, I gaze in my head, at the changes we underwent, while together, while apart. From afar, in the heart of all that is cold, the thought of Iran beats down on the child in my soul. Here in my head, I am told not to return. From afar, the faces haunt me. From afar, the one year we spent in Shahrekord comes rushing into the damp and rotting corridors of my brain, and the thought of it, along with the voices that follow, are the piercing pain in my temples… the pain that provokes me at times to  wish my suicide attempts in Iran had been serious and successful. I am sure that this is a painful notion for you to hear. Quietly alone, from afar, I hope you will accept my sickness.

If I were to sit down with you, to confess my sins and wrongdoings, to reveal to you the secrets that so far have carried me here, it would…ah; it would surely burden you further!

            Tear it all; let it burn; scratch every letter, every line…start again…

 

He was human, in flesh and form,

Of human blood, and human bones;

His dreams were machines, born out of sand and rock,

His soul’s comfort was his knowledge needed,

Towering ambitions inside his core,

The likes of which, his people had never seen before…

Scattered times we shared the horizon on the road…

The road, was his peace of mind,

He drove as he feasted on his thoughts,

And when weary, he would sing.

Somewhere somehow, strangers we became…

Afloat in space, I let my Farsi fade,

The nightingales no longer sang to me those ancient verses,

Of the travels of Saadi or the loves of Hafez;

I demolished mountains of memories, or I guess I tried;

I guess, in the end, something must remain…but what?

Perhaps, long ago, I left innocence ignored,

Perhaps somewhere, some papers know…

Posted in Letters | 5,332 Comments