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…
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.’
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.
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.