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…