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 | 7,483 Comments

I’m Yet to Figure Out


There is a beautiful neighborhood near where I live. There is much history within its narrow streets. There’s also a creek that runs in between two long and winding rows of houses and abandoned buildings, where the shadows of the trees tremble in backyards and on stone and brick walls. I go there to walk around. Sometimes I sit on the withered and worn out stones lying at the miniature wooden door of some Armenian church, which has long been empty of a prayer. One day I’ll creep inside and see what it’s like in there. Quite frankly, until now that thought hadn’t occurred to me. Regardless, it is a beautiful neighborhood. I am more than certain that many people know of this place; however you can always find silence throughout the day and there never seems to be any heavy traffic. Like I said, it’s the history that lies within its narrow streets. History keeps people quiet as they come and go.

The other day I left my house with a letter I had received from abroad. I hadn’t opened it yet and I decided to go for a walk. The contents of the letter weighed heavy through the envelope and I knew that reading it would either kill me or intoxicate my eyes and soul. I decided to keep it sealed and unread and just walk around for a while, consumed by what I had done. I remember staring at myself in a mirror before leaving the house. I stared deep into my eyes and made many faces. “You could’ve picked silence,” I muttered with an evil grin and added hysterically, “But no! You had to make it known. I guess you’re happy now you fool! The end has arrived!” I remember letting out a laugh as I locked the house door and entered the street. A sentence came to mind. I repeated it as I began my walk. “I’m the man impartial of the outcome. I’m the man in a box made of me, and I shall breathe and go to sleep, night after night, regardless of the outcome.” I repeated it over and over again and I began to feel that it would make a wonderful poem.

I felt once again the weight of the outcome, put on paper, inside my pocket as I reached for my cell phone and turned it off. I had received the letter two days ago and since then I had observed only and quite critically the handwriting on the envelope, the stamp, the smoothness of each curve on every S. I had consumed for two days now, the focus and care that I felt had been put into the writing. I’d stared at the damn thing for hours on end unable to predict a single word and incapable of ridding myself of regret.

Winter seemed to be over. There weren’t many people out at midday. I made my way, speeding as usual, to the beautiful neighborhood where I go to walk. I noticed from afar a few kids that were tossing a plastic ball around. As I approached them, one of them fumbled the ball and it bounced off of his foot and rolled into the creek. The other two kids yelled at him and he dropped his head with his smile and walked over to the water. The kid got down on his hands and knees, on the edge of the grass and began to reach. “Do you need some help?” None of them said anything as I walked over to the water. The ball hadn’t even hit the water. It had landed perfectly against a plastic bag, which was filled with something soft. Something soft in a plastic bag saved their ball from the water. I didn’t question what it might’ve been. I sat down without looking at the kid next to me and made my way down calmly and grabbed the ball. “Here you go,” I said as I handed it to him and smiled.

“Thanks,” he said, getting up quickly and throwing the ball towards his friends. I came back out on the grass and continued my walk, further down the creek. There was a man walking in the opposite direction as me. He had a crooked cigarette in between his lips and his hands seemed to be stuffed incredibly deep within his jacket pockets. He wore jeans bearing streaks of mud and dirt with a few holes by his knees. He caught my stare as I walked by him and for some absurd reason that I’m yet to figure out, I smiled at him and said, “Hello.”

“Good day,” I heard him say when we had already passed each other. His voice ached in his throat, or so it seemed. There was something about his crooked cigarette and his weary eyes, or perhaps there was just some history in his worn out jeans.

About a quarter of an hour had gone by when I reached the silent church. There, I sat down as usual and had a smoke. I wasn’t alone. I ran my eyes down the creek and the snake like strip of grass. There was a young couple sitting by the water. The boy was leaning back against a tree with his feet stretched out towards the creek. The girl was sitting to his left with her legs crossed calmly as she stared at him constantly. Gradually I began to pay attention. “Where will you go?” she kept asking him. They were clueless to my presence behind them. Sitting there, taking silent drags off of a cigarette by the church, I stared at them attentively. “I love you with all my heart,” she said to him. “I will always love you and I don’t care what others think or say. I love you and that is all that matters to me.”

There were silent pauses here and there and I was leaning forward ever so casually, focusing on the boy’s head and waiting for him to speak. He seemed to be gazing blankly at the water and the girl’s eyes, from what I noticed, never once left the sight of the boy. She was facing him the whole time and I could see the side of her face. She was young, maybe sixteen or seventeen. My cigarette, for some absurd reason that I’m yet to figure out, tasted much more bitter than usual and I put it out with disgust, still keeping my eyes on the young couple by the water. “I could never find it in my heart to leave you,” she said as she grabbed his hand.

Within my gaze, within my thoughts, I wanted to walk over there, grab the boy by his collar and put him up against the tree. “Don’t believe her you idiot! What the hell is the matter with you, huh? What are you like sixteen? You don’t know anything you idiot! Sure as hell she doesn’t know what she’s talking about either. Open your eyes you stupid kid!”


I still walk around all the time, and I’m yet to figure out what to do and how to love. The contents of someone’s thought, weighs heavily within my chest.

Posted in Stories | 8,648 Comments

Center of Everything


My clothes were damp when I came back inside the house. They were all sitting at the dinner table; my family of friends. “Got enough rain?” said Paul. I took off my sweater and nodded my head. “How long were you out there?”

“Long enough,” I replied as I made my way over to the table. “What’re you guys doing?”

Nobody said anything for a moment as I shifted my eyes from Sam to John to Jane and finally to Paul and Mary. “We were waiting for you,” she said and Paul kept running his fingers on the back of her neck.

“Well I’m here.”

“Yes you are,” she said with a laugh.

“Anybody want a drink?” I said while scratching my head and stretching my back.

“Let’s pour some drinks,” Sam exclaimed as he got up from his seat.

“Don’t worry, I got it. Feel like being the bartender tonight,” I said with a smile.

“What else are you every other night?” said John.

“Every other night,” I said, raising my head. “Every other night, I’m the drunk. What is everyone having? Wine or Whiskey..?” I raised my hands up to my chest and cracked my knuckles all at once.

“Whiskey,” said John.

“I’ll start with the wine,” said Sam.

“Hey, look at this heavy drinker.”

“It’s alright,” I said. “I think I’ll start with the wine too.”  Mary shook her head.

“I’ll have some wine please,” said Jane.

“Sure thing,” I said and continued, “Hey Paul, do you want me to bring you a glass of milk or something?”

“No, that’s fine,” he said. “Just try not to break anything while you’re pouring the drinks.”

Mary and Jane laughed and Sam got up again and said, “I think I’ll help you out.”


We got the bottles and some glasses and got to work. “I’m not going to lie to you guys. I already had a few drinks earlier.”

“Yeah, we know,” said John.

“It’s not surprising,” said Sam.

“What? What’re you guys talking about?” I exclaimed. “I was just joking.”

“I bet your glass is still on the balcony,” said Paul, raising his eyebrows and mocking me with his teeth. For a while, I’d wanted to knock them out of his mouth!

“Yes, it is,” I said nodding my head and staring at the glass of wine in front of me.

“It’s okay,” said Jane. “You don’t drink like this all the time.”

“No, I don’t at all. How do you know that?”

“I can tell from your eyes.”

“She can read you,” said Mary.

“It’s true,” said Paul. I looked away from her and closed my eyes momentarily.

“I’m not the best person to read,” I said, looking at Sam and John all of a sudden.

“I disagree,” said Jane. “Every read is an interesting one.”

“We have super powers in our presence!” I exclaimed, tapping my fingers on the table foolishly and smiling at everyone. Nobody said anything or even smiled from what I remember. I reached for my drink and said, “So Jane, you can read people. Tell me, how does that work? It must be a whole lot better than fiction.” I let out a laugh looking over at John, who was then wearing a subtle smile, which seemed to consist of a whole lot of laughter within. “Is it similar to reading a biography? I’ve read a lot of people too you know!”

“I know that you’re really not trying to mock me.”

“Mock you? No!” I shouted and continued, “Maybe just a little bit. Who knows?”

“You’re a liar, and a bad one,” said Jane.

Everybody refrained from uttering a single word and John seemed to be holding his breath as well. “That’s true,” I nodded slowly and added, “But everybody knows that Jane.” I downed the wine in my glass aggressively, as I reached into my shirt pocket and took out my pack of smokes. “Is anybody going to join me?”

John got up from his seat and said, “Yeah, I’ll join you, friend.”

“I think I will too,” said Jane. I stared at her as she got up and John stood still as he was putting on his coat. She went over to her purse and took out a cigarette, and then she stared back at me and said, “Bet you didn’t see that coming huh?”

I said nothing and stared at her as she walked right past me. The smell of her perfume dragged me deeper into my gaze. Damn she smelt nice! Shortly after, when I snapped out of it, I heard Paul’s wicked laughter and John said, “Let’s go buddy.”

The clouds of rain that I’d spent a couple of hours watching earlier had stretched further down the view. The rain itself was gone but the wind remained. There were two lawn chairs on the balcony. John had comfortably seated himself in one and lit a cigarette. Jane stood there, to his right and I was to his left. “Sit down,” I said.

“Is that an offer or an order?”

“Whatever you want it to be sweetheart,” I said, taking a long and slow drag of my smoke and letting it out through my nose.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I think so. What day is it today?”

“It’s Monday,” said John. I let out a sigh and moved to the edge of the balcony and looked down.

“You know when you’re a kid, and you pick your favorite day out of the week and you spend every hour of every other day anticipating it, time passes so much slower.” They were both staring at me, while the wind was constantly howling and I could still smell, through all the smoke and the moisture in the air, her perfume. “Everything starts to race when you realize that every day is just the same, if you’re nothing.”

“I would think the opposite,” said John.

“No, believe me; it passes faster when you know.” We all fell silent into our smokes. John dropped his eyes and stared at the ground, while mine couldn’t sit still within my head. Jane was staring at me, from what I saw through a few passing glances. “How many planes,” I said all of a sudden and repeated louder, “How many planes, do you guys think, land inTorontoevery day?” We all turned to look at the sky.

“I think there are ten in the sky right now.”

“I know, it’s unbelievable,” I replied.

“Yeah,” said John.

“So many people are up in the sky!” I shouted, throwing my arms up in the air while I turned around fully and faced them. “You know Jane, you have a beautiful smile.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“Don’t try to hide it now,” I said, pointing my finger at her childishly. She laughed and John flicked his cigarette off the balcony. My eyes followed it until it vanished from sight.

“I’m going inside,” he said and he was gone ever so quickly.

“Sit down,” I said.

“I’ll take it as it is,” she said and sat down. After sitting down next to her I reached underneath her seat. She stared at my hand with her smile and said, “What’re you looking for Bobby?”

“I left a friend somewhere here.” Her eyes lit up as I pulled out a small glass bottle of vodka and a metal cup.  “Do you like my friend?”

“Very much so,” she said.

“I’m pretty sure the cup is clean. Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” she replied as she put out her cigarette in the ashtray. I filled up half of the cup and handed it to her. She took a proper sip, made a face that I’d never before seen, and her smile came back as she gave it back to me. “My favorite day was always Wednesday.”

“Why’s that?” I said.

“I always felt that it was the center of the week. Kind of like the peak of a mountain, where you can see both sides.”

“That’s interesting.”

“What was yours?”

“Tuesday,” I said instantly.

“Why Tuesday?” she asked.

“Because nobody gives a damn about Tuesday,” I said.

“That couldn’t have been your reason.”

“Honestly I don’t even remember.”

There are a lot of things that I don’t remember. When I was a kid, time seemed to pass slowly and I could see everything. I don’t remember exactly how old I was when I realized how much there was to see. But I remember getting on some plane and leaving Toronto, that same week, on a clear and cold Thursday evening. I still remember how, for just a moment, she had made me feel like I, was the center of everything.

Posted in Stories | 7,209 Comments

Alcohol Below, Opium Above


“She’s asleep,” said Alex.

“It’s about time,” I replied. He walked over to the kitchen ever so gently, without making even the slightest sound and sat down across from me. I reached for the bottle of alcohol on the ground next to my ankle while keeping an eye on the closed door of my grandmother’s room.

“Pour me a light shot.” I handed him his glass and began to pour my own. We made eye contact as we took the first sip and I’m sure that neither of us was thinking that it was our first time drinking together. “It’s been a while,” he said and continued, “since I drank.”

“You haven’t changed a bit.”

“What do you mean?”

“You still look like you did ten years ago.”

“I always was a good looking kid!”

“Yeah, you were,” I laughed.

“Shh,” he whispered. “You don’t want to wake her up.”

“This is ridiculous,” I said, still loud and even made him press his finger to his lips. “I can’t even laugh? We’re just talking here. What is she gonna do?”

“She’ll kill you.”

“I doubt it,” I said, clearing my throat and taking a large sip.

“I’m pretty sure she has a shotgun under her bed!”

“Is she a good shot?”

“Oh, I’m positive she is.” We were both laughing now. Well, he was smiling and looking back and forth loosely at his drink and me.

“I’ve got to have a cigarette.”

“You can’t open the door,” he replied instantly, still carrying his smile, but with a distinct tone of voice, consumed by authority; dictating to me the law.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I replied.

“I only smoke cigars,” he said all of a sudden, raising his glass to me like a millionaire, or a prince; sitting up straight with wide shoulders and a head help up high.

“Do you have any?”

“No,” he replied, finishing his light shot while brushing his hair back with his hand.

“It’s nice to celebrate with cigars,” I said.

“Is that what people do over there?”

“Where?” I replied and added quickly, “In Canada?”

“Where else have you been?” he exclaimed, laughing silently.

“Well, no. A lot of people smoke grass.”

Alex, in one split moment, turned his head swiftly towards the hallway, stretching his arm in a panic with his index finger raised; straight like a pin but tall, with a long nail. “Put the glasses away,” he whispered, “and the bottle.” I looked over at the door for a moment and saw nothing. I turned to my drink. It was harsh as it lingered in the throat. I turned to look at my cigarettes on the counter as soon as I placed the drink back on the table. The glass was thin. For an instant, I had an urge to break it in my hand; somewhat similar to when some people come across cute babies, they feel like squeezing them. Lots of people may think it’s psychotic. I don’t know.

“She’s not awake,” I said confidently. “I figure her to be a deep sleeper.”

“Sasan, my dear cousin,” he said, to my surprise still smiling and added, “I used to live with her.”

“That’s right, but she’s an old woman. You start becoming a deep sleeper when you hit sixty.”

“Where’d you get that from?”

“I just made it up.”

“She sleeps with her eyes open. I mean really! Her eyes never close. She wears those silk eye patches from time to time. I remember once, I’d hung my clothes in her room. It was in the afternoon. Everybody was asleep and I crept inside her bedroom very casually; didn’t even look at her as I went over to the closet. Suddenly, like feeling someone’s motionless stare, I turned my head and found her lying on her side, facing me. Breathing with complete tranquility, her eyes were open, watching me. In the name of God, I couldn’t move! I was petrified and strangely couldn’t distinguish whether she was awake or dead!”

“Was she dead?” I muttered while pouring a drink for myself and stretching the bottle towards Alex. He refused and shook his hand calmly along with his head. I closed the bottle and smoothly returned it to the spot next to my ankle. “Alright, I’m going on the terrace,” I said in a hurry as I took a large sip.

“Try to be quiet,” he said.


Stray cats ruled over the city at that point, and many traffic lights continued to change purposelessly, or so it seemed. I took long and loving drags off the cigarette, staring at the trees and the dusty bushes by the gutters, where a dark stream of water made its way silently amongst the litter and the leaves. I couldn’t recognize the dust, or the smell that greeted me. For a moment I watched my cigarette burning, taking long breaths through my nose. It was heavy and somewhat thick. “Everything’s beginning to change,” I thought as I went back inside. Alex was lying on the ground with his hands locked together on his chest.

“You smoke fast,” he whispered. I knelt down to grab the bottle and stopped suddenly when I heard a thud and the sound of a glass breaking from upstairs. Even Alex sat up. “What was that?”

“I don’t know. Do you smell that?”

“Yeah,” said Alex.

It lingered all throughout the night, but we no longer heard a sound.

Posted in Stories | 8,677 Comments

Scattered Thoughts of a Nobody

Day One


Why do all the thoughts come rushing when I’m not where I’m supposed to be? Why do they like it when it’s crowded all around? Why can’t I commit everything by single specks to anything but this? Why am I no longer able to predict and pinpoint the moments? Everything seems to be falling where it’s needed. But smiles almost always carry wrinkles; tension of thought, waiting for the outcome. Some people carry on with the days, hand in hand while they suffer with their waiting. There are others that play the role, and pretend to know, making it harder to endure the pain. Empty handed, back and forth they crawl. People I know, people I love, and everyone it seems, is waiting for me to pack up and fade away my face. As odd as it may be, it all bears reality. The truth is that within, the path remains undisturbed. Blurry here and there with shades of doubt and fear at times, it still remains the ground familiar to my feet. To find another, to venture away entirely is not the simplest of tasks. The thought of it alone, much resembles the most natural fear of men.

I fall into pits when nothing tends to come. Rejected by papers and mocked by the pen, I greet the walls and fall asleep. Oh these walls! Such friendly walls that surround me! Sleep is the escape. Better yet, it is hope. What is man to do without it? Quite nerve racking is the experience of love. The whole scene within the relationship- man and woman, boy and girl- has repeated itself for me like a broken record, a dagger-like memory that comes and goes, jabbing the mind every so often. It is not for me. No, I have plenty daggers in the head and scars on the skin. I mustn’t show them anything. The pain is entirely mine.

What can one do when emptiness turns into liquid form and soaks into the skin and all around? Tell me, have you ever felt that sudden rush of rage that carries with it the invincibility of God? Yes, God. Only for a second it comes and it leaves when one starts to bleed. True shades commence, shadows appear and waves of smoke caress the air as I return to my human pain.

I come and go, greeting my neighbors with envy while gazing for a moment into their painless routines. I wouldn’t at all mind the cage. Let the hunger rise. Let the scream within shatter all that is said. Let regrets flood out all innocent yesterdays. Let the eyes of people seek the light and allow me laughter. Left alone to the sincere sound of seconds; let me hear nothing else. I wouldn’t at all mind.

Lonely visions understand well the delusion of need and the strolling back and forth. It isn’t pain. They understand well how open windows tend to befriend me and they fail to mention why it is so. Everything around moves slowly for a time, then fast and I drink to slow it down again. I drink for the time, and smoke for the drink and die for the smoke. I have friends. Distant are their eyes. They may worry every now and then and they may actually feel it when I cave. Nobody, almost nobody here, is willing to close their eyes. Nobody here tends to see the shapelessness of love and all else.

The hand of comfort is firm. Memories carry with them the scent of freedom. The skin trembles at times under the breeze of isolation. My papers would, if they could, burn themselves to save their lines from the weight of nonsense, but they are mine to kill. All reason fades within a moment of emotion and one becomes trapped and involved with things and people and crowded it becomes.

Let this liquid of hollow hope evaporate up and out of me. Let people’s hidden hate flood the cracks in sidewalks and street floors. Let it be seen and observed by strangers and tourists. Let it be caught like a disease by the young and the weak. Let us murder brutally the final few fragments of individuality left, and let us call it ‘art.’

If only the simplest of men could put an end to all waiting and burn the room and the chairs and the magazines. Perhaps then, religion would come to an end. I tend to believe only in what I see, and things that have enough courage to show themselves. That is all.


I’m in for a fall tonight. Nothing has come. So, much like always I shall greet the walls and fall asleep. Such friendly walls that surround me…


Day Two


Staying within a closed room, all alone, has nothing to do with solitude. It is merely an act of cleansing the moments with thought; watching time and the essence that drips and drifts so indifferently out of reach. I awaken to a pool of sweat and the sound of birds laughing. Oh, how I’ve come to understand the fear in their flight and the togetherness in their laughter. You can understand anything if you listen for a while. Many mornings, it seems as if I lift myself and rise merely to be greeted by a cup of coffee in the kitchen and the ashtray by the window. Many mornings, I question for a moment, where I am and where to go. Many mornings the birds don’t laugh, but there is always the sound of something.

The chain snaps with the ringing of the phone or the knocking at the door or the dropping of a star. Lousy mistakes and thoughtless fools! No one is to blame for the lack of rain or the beauty being forced to hide. I blame myself for the taste of the food I cannot cook. Slowly I shall turn into an egg and scramble my brain. Yellow I am.

Alcohol sings, and the echo is the intoxication when the stomach is empty. The rest is all a thought of wanting to be drunk. Yes, friend, fool, my love, I think I want to be.

Someone, anyone, you, me, could see the idiotic shadows, walking and talking, their overcoats hanging by their knees and the smoke rising from their mouths and dying. We can laugh, and stare and laugh again and leave them to their path. I don’t mean to mock. Let us just laugh for the sake of laughing. They say it helps to house a healthy heart. They say it prolongs the life. They say a whole lot of other things as well. I would love to meet them, only to show them how well I can laugh.


‘Get in the room and shut the door. Listen. Breathe gently and listen. Leave the window open and exhale entirely everything. You can feel the hate, I know. It is useless now. Remember the mountains, remember your friends. Cry, if only it comforts the air. You can see them still, be with them, speak, smile and let it repeat itself. Forget your notebook for now. Travel back to the serene sands of the sound of silence and discover your footsteps. Remind yourself of the holes of hunger, the passion of pain and say, “This is nothing.” Think with patience. Take breaths with care. Listen. Can you hear them talking? Don’t worry. It will come. Think about that distant balcony; the twenty first floor’s scent of solitude, the grasp of acceptance. You can resurrect the very last handshake, the final hug and all the smiles. What about the birds? Have you forgotten them? Remember the thieving sparrows, the cocky robins and the pairs of crows. Dance again to the music from every room. Invite the intoxication with open arms. Gently squeeze the hand of comfort, before letting go. Taste the food. Smell the rain. Laugh once again at past jokes. Cry if it helps. You don’t need to sleep. You don’t need a smoke. All you need is to breathe. Let it all come to you, as slowly as it may. Tiresome it is, yet this is where you are. Welcome it as you breathe. Come to terms with the nothingness within. Accept the silence of your phone. Kill all expectations. Think and breathe and listen. Can you hear the love? You must hear it before you die.’



Day Three


            This wavy city rises and falls, and sways in an abundance of feet, and eyes and ears. The transformation of roads and buildings, however slow, takes place at a constant level. It lives without being spotted by the majority of the mass. At times the streets tend to narrow down any possibility of flight. Dirt roads and dirt walls remain satisfied with slow decay. It is here, where the most miniature of all stars shines along with the sun, and the puniest speck of any emotion bears the weight of absolute truth; even though, there exists no such thing. My country; oh familiar land of scales and time, I adore you. You never seem to repeat yourself. Maybe I’m wrong. That’s just how I see it. It comes to me; all the changes in extended waves of colors. Oh uneven sands and mountains under the sun! I probably come from some village. The root I mean. Most likely from the north…a breed of a violent pride with veins housed by Turkish blood; I remain underneath a question mark as it rains. Sheltered by ignorance, I am usually calm. Carelessness cannot be acted out.

The streets take me to their crowded refuge. It happens everywhere, from Tehran to Isfahan and the faces come and go, some of which appear to have always been there. I feel the same sometimes. It’s too difficult to get into it with words. It must be lived and not heard. So why bother?

Plenty nights I’ve spent, consuming the hours early in the evening, with purposeless walks, empty of any destination; nobody calling me, nobody sitting alone waiting with worry and wanting. I walk; better yet, I drift for hours on end and return home. Oh the people I see! Inspiration arouses even the laziest of men. Women are usually our inspirations. I feel this now and I am no longer inspired by anything. I am driven towards it. Nothing is aroused anymore. A whole lot was born, and breathes and just grows. At one point, I came to believe that everything revolves due to the genuine love which exists, no matter how scarce it may be. I remember believing, but I’m not so sure anymore. Whatever it is, I think it’s a nice thought.

I would never harm the outside world. Maybe I have, but never intentionally. It has become my sanctuary. It is a haven with a horizon stretched far beyond routine; sidewalks and alleys, completely distant to the hands of predictive thoughts. These sidewalks resemble a university for some. Crowded they become at times. Dreaded by a minority, the streets keep living, dictating the direction of the current of change.

This is not a story.

I wake up and there is a crow sitting on the windowsill, staring at me. Our acquaintance doesn’t last very long. As I begin to roll over slightly, I hear its wings followed by its laughter. The sun is setting and I have no recollection of falling asleep. I’m not tired or drowsy with puffy eyes and a headache. There isn’t even the need to wash my face with cold water. I sit down in the kitchen with a cigarette, staring blankly at the remains of the night before. The smoke sits well upon diluted thoughts. Weakened by habit, I stare blankly at everything before getting up and deciding to go out.

Welcomed by the air, I enter the noise and the pollution. Strangely enough, I’ve left the house in search of some place to sit down and someone to stare at; some place simple and somebody not so much. Does it fit into sense? I’m in need of a face that will mark the hours and help me remember this day. Everyday I need a new pair of eyes and a voice. Everyday I go out, seeking desperately another personality, or just a summarized and compressed copy of a stranger’s soul out on the street.

Lots of people look the same and act alike. The women here are beautiful. It takes a while to stumble upon the fact, but once you do, you just keep falling. This is true, because they’re forced to be. I figured it out and I know deep down inside that it most probably isn’t what it is.

I’m one for the winter and frozen sidewalks and steaming cups of coffee. I’m one for the silence known to be uncomfortable. I’m one for writing and doing nothing whether it is a Sunday or not. I’m one for walking, clueless, from home to home and curb to curb. I’m a fan of girls who pour chaos into a soul every now and then. I’m one for the carelessness that belongs to no place and no one. I’m one for moments left alone and I also need the streets.


When he sits down, he knows.

When he gets up, he forgets.

“Got to keep moving” is what he thinks.

In and out he strives, and struggles back and forth.

Never constant are his eyes,

Never seeking the stillness lost,

He hovers into hallucinations.

The day begs of him to read,

The night takes the form of a bottle or a woman,

And much later on he falls asleep inside his ashtray.

Moving on,

Hand in hand with habit,

Weakened by the rivers on his window,

Faces drift along,

And smiles are thrown at him from time to time,

And his country remains the place that he carries in his bag,

And “got to keep moving” is what he thinks.

Posted in Stories | 7,678 Comments

City With No Walls

I could hear him calling me in the dark, whispering my name. I was lying on my side on the ground and there was a slight pain in my throat. He kept calling me but for about a minute or two I said nothing.

“Bobby? Wake up. Hey Bobby, you awake?”


“Are you awake?”

“I was in the middle of something.”

“You’re still asleep. Wake up Bobby.”

“I’m awake. What do you want?”

“I’m sorry.”

“What is it Sean?”

“I heard something. I just remembered I forgot to lock the top lock.”

“Oh yeah, don’t worry about it.”

“Bobby please, I have to work tomorrow. I can’t sleep.”

“There’s nobody there. It’s late. Just go to sleep.”

“Please Bobby. Please go and lock the door. I know I heard something.”

“Alright Sean, take it easy,” I said, sitting up slowly and giving him a look of disgust that I knew he wouldn’t see in all that darkness.

“Thank you.”

I got up and left the room grunting and clearing my throat and pretending to yawn. It was raining out, I think. Maybe it had stopped. I don’t quite remember. It was windy as always and I knew all too well that wind can sound almost like anything. I stood in front of the door and before looking through the peephole I kicked Sean’s shoes out of my way. “Thought you heard something huh?”

It wasn’t long before I heard something too. Right when I’d put my hand on the lock, I heard something like a whimper. It was so low of a cry that I had to place my ear against the door just to make sure it was there. I looked through the peephole again but couldn’t see anything except for the door across the hall. I couldn’t help but wonder how the hell it was that Sean had heard this silent sob from inside our room with the door closed and the wind constantly howling. I guess his ears were just as sharp as my eyes, maybe even sharper.

I opened the door and saw this girl sitting in the hallway with her head in between her knees and her hands in her hair, which at that point resembled a light brown waterfall with narrow streaks of gold. I cleared my throat and she jumped up nervously and it was then that I recognized her.

“Jane? What’s going on?”

“I-I’ve been trying to call Mary, b-b-but…”

“She isn’t home. What’s wrong Jane?”

“I’ve b-been…”

“Come inside. Come inside,” I said, coming out into the hallway and putting my arm around her. She was shaking like crazy and her clothes were wet. The poor girl was all over the place. I led her inside and locked the door. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” It was a stupid question to ask once I’d already seen her. “Forget it,” I said. “Come sit down.”

“Where’s Mary?”

“She’s staying at Paul’s house tonight,” I said and my answer seemed to trigger a lot more tears to flow and she let out a desperate moan. I took her over to the sofa and she dropped herself like a corpse that cried and whose face would shake uncontrollably. I heard the creaking of Sean’s bed and knew that he was getting up. “Listen; just sit tight for a sec.”

He was sitting up in bed when I walked into the room. “What happened? What’s Jane doing here?”

“Yeah, listen, don’t worry about it. I found her in the hallway. Don’t worry about it, alright?”

“What the hell are you talking about? What do you mean ‘don’t worry?’ What’s wrong with her?”

“I don’t know. Like I said, don’t worry about it. I’m gonna talk to her.”

“I still…”

“Listen; just try to get some sleep. She’s breaking down like crazy.”

Sean gave me a look that was empty of a whole lot of things. I disregarded his confusion and went over to the corner of the room and grabbed my cigarettes off the table. “She was in the hallway?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna talk to her just now and see what’s going on,” I said as I went back towards the door.

“I knew I heard something.”


“Please don’t turn the light on,” she said. It seemed that her throat had cleared up a bit.

“Okay, I won’t.” I sat down across from her on the next sofa. Her eyes were closed and her lips were dry and trembling. Her brown complexion had turned abnormally white. I grabbed a blanket that almost always sat idle on the sofa and placed it gently on top of her in a way that only her neck and head could be seen. “Your clothes are wet. I was gonna give you some of Mary’s clothes but her door is locked. She locks it whenever she leaves the house. I can give you some of mine if you like.”

“I’ll be fine.”

I sat back down again and stared at her attentively. She opened her eyes for a moment and closed them again once she knew where I was. The living room didn’t possess the same darkness. “Is it still raining out?” she opened her eyes again and closed them and this time she did it much quicker than before. “It’s probably still raining,” I said, cursing myself and my stupid questions. Suddenly I remembered the thought I was wrapped in before all of this had occurred; before Sean had started to call my name. I was thinking about a city with no walls; better yet a place that certain words were never created, certain emotions never came to be. I was wondering whether there is a place out there with no attachments, where you carry nothing but yourself. I don’t know how this thought suddenly came rushing back to me, but I tried to brush it away back where it’d come from.

“Do you have a cigarette?”

“Of course, I was gonna go have one soon enough.”

“Go where?” she asked.

“The balcony,” I said. “We can’t smoke in the house. You don’t mind do you?” She said nothing and just pushed the blanket away and it fell onto the floor and she got up. Her eyes were open now and she followed me out onto the balcony. I gave her a cigarette and held my lighter out towards her and quickly after I lit my own. I only had four cigarettes left. I remember this precisely because four is my favorite number and I always remember when I have four of anything, or anything with four in it.

Jane smoked her cigarette like any other true girl of innocence. I couldn’t stop staring at her. She seemed calm now, even if just a little bit. But it started again. Tears began to burst. She threw her half smoked cigarette off the balcony. Her hands trembled like twigs in the spring when storms bring about winds of awakening, and her neck seemed as if it no longer could bear the weight.

“Oh Jane, what’s wrong?” I quickly grabbed a small stool from behind me and made her sit down. It was better to talk, or cry or scream on the balcony with the wind. She said nothing and only covered her face with her tiny trembling hands. I hesitated but soon enough my hand was moving gently up and down her back.

“Don’t. P-Please don’t Bobby.” My hand fell idle once again as I stared down at her.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Are you cold?”


“Do you want a drink?”

“Is there any liquor?” she said as she looked up at me. Damn was she beautiful!

“I think so.”

I opened up every cupboard in the kitchen but couldn’t find anything. I hurriedly made my way to the storage room and was greeted by a bunch of shoes, rows of records, boxes and boxes of junk and a bottle of Brandy. It was half full. Standing there, I was reading the label on the bottle when I heard it again. I could feel my hands trembling and I felt as if I’d swallowed a brick. She was crying again when I went back onto the balcony. I poured her a drink and she downed it. I gave her a cigarette and her crying stopped.



“Do you want to talk about it?”

“About what?” she said.

“Is there anything you want to talk about?”

“Nothing important,” she said and closed her eyes.

I don’t remember what time it was. The wind was ferocious still, and the Brandy seemed to sit well on the brick in my throat. It wasn’t me at all. It was the taste that carries courage. It was that one glass that made me say, “Sweetheart, he doesn’t deserve you.”


Posted in Stories | 19,503 Comments

Sick Cat

The cat was sick,
And it broke my heart,
As I smoked a joint,
To see her shitting on the floor,
The cat got diarrhea,
And I saw shame in her eyes,
For animals have it too;
Both diarrhea and shame.

Posted in Poems | 8,932 Comments


He is not like you and I,
He is one too many altogether,
And the moments that are his
Are smeared in laughs;
In his moments,
The moments that are truly his,
Attentive ears tend to cloak him,
And he jumps about in his moments,
And he makes people happy,
In those moments, he is funny.
But he himself is not like you and I,
He told me once
That he is no longer proud of his scars,
And he still bites his nails,
And he said once, “Cigarettes taste different,
And it seems like drugs in my body
Have surely changed…”
His luck is an alien one,
Not like yours or mine.
His tolerance, is riddled with caves
And hidden habits,
His eyes have glimpsed within the core
Of temptation’s tumor;
He knows how to hurt,
And he told me once,
“What’s scary is that I enjoy it sometimes.
I enjoy being pissed.”
“We all do,” I said, “Sometimes…
You and I are much the same.”

Posted in Poems | 7,625 Comments


“How are things back home?”
“Same old, same old…”
“How are your parents?
Have you spoken with them recently?”
“I speak with my mother from time to time.”
He continued to talk for a while,
I pretended to listen,
He then went on to buy me a beer.
“Buy me beers,” I thought,
“And I will talk politics with you
For the remainder of the night,
I will tell you of the streets in Iran,
I will agree with you
And nod my head repeatedly
At your western disbelief;
Buy me beers, and I’ll show you,
I can be an asshole just like you.
My girlfriend doesn’t like you;
Buy us both beers,
And we’ll pretend till friendship forms”

Posted in Poems | 9,206 Comments


Make a list,
Get drunk and go,
Make sure to have
Three pints at least,
So you can smile
While you wait in line…
Orange juice,
Candy, candy!
Never forget
The wine and whiskey,
Pour me a shot and
Tell me you love me
In an Irish accent,
It’ll be funny.
Chocolate…? Coffee..?
Sleep baby, sleep.
Christmas came, Christmas left,
New Year’s resolution:
Learn more love…
After all, it is easier
Than quitting smoking…

Posted in Poems | 8,277 Comments