Cold Rain
Didn’t I stroll under its refreshing mist a thousand
times? Didn’t it make me wet on the way to
school? Didn’t it ruin my homework times and
again? Didn’t the young palms of my hands
endure the sting of punishment every time? Didn’t
it give me the cold, the congested nose and the
cough and the horrible taste of cough syrup
afterward? Didn’t I drop the vitamin C tablet in a
glass of water, dazzled with the fizzle and down it
with a frown? Wasn’t it all because of rain?
Wasn’t my first kiss under a broken umbrella?
Wasn’t it there sweet flavor of raindrops between
our steamy lips? If it wasn’t a rainy day, where
does the misty recollection come from? Why is it
flowing in my poem? Why does it shower my
thoughts? Why do I think of rain when I’m blue?
Why does it complement my delight?
Was it not true that when my aunt died, I cried
under the rain? Didn’t rain wash my tears? Didn’t
my sorrow make it fall? If rain has no feelings,
where does its sympathy come from? Why are my
sentiments soaked?
And now it’s pouring, this capricious rain. It’s
madly knocking on my lonely door, splashing on
the walls of my sorrow and drumming on the roof
of my youth. It’s seeping through the window
cracks of my room, dripping on the cherished
photos of mine. Through the foggy glass, I feel its
pain and embrace its hazy presence. Its beads are
freezing on the tips of nude branches. Autumn has
taken over, leaves have fallen. A long cold season
is on the way. Rain knows it well. Maybe I should
too.
Didn’t I stroll under its refreshing mist a thousand
times? Didn’t it make me wet on the way to
school? Didn’t it ruin my homework times and
again? Didn’t the young palms of my hands
endure the sting of punishment every time? Didn’t
it give me the cold, the congested nose and the
cough and the horrible taste of cough syrup
afterward? Didn’t I drop the vitamin C tablet in a
glass of water, dazzled with the fizzle and down it
with a frown? Wasn’t it all because of rain?
Wasn’t my first kiss under a broken umbrella?
Wasn’t it there sweet flavor of raindrops between
our steamy lips? If it wasn’t a rainy day, where
does the misty recollection come from? Why is it
flowing in my poem? Why does it shower my
thoughts? Why do I think of rain when I’m blue?
Why does it complement my delight?
Was it not true that when my aunt died, I cried
under the rain? Didn’t rain wash my tears? Didn’t
my sorrow make it fall? If rain has no feelings,
where does its sympathy come from? Why are my
sentiments soaked?
And now it’s pouring, this capricious rain. It’s
madly knocking on my lonely door, splashing on
the walls of my sorrow and drumming on the roof
of my youth. It’s seeping through the window
cracks of my room, dripping on the cherished
photos of mine. Through the foggy glass, I feel its
pain and embrace its hazy presence. Its beads are
freezing on the tips of nude branches. Autumn has
taken over, leaves have fallen. A long cold season
is on the way. Rain knows it well. Maybe I should
too.
Thief
It was late at night when we returned from the party,
both tired ready to get some sleep. As I turned the
key, I noticed the door was unlocked. Something was
wrong. Cautiously I nudged the door open just to face
a half-empty house. We’d been burglarized.
Neither the television nor the leather sofa in front of it
remained. My favorite ottoman wasn’t there. The
VCR, the camcorder and the stereo system were all
gone.
I rushed to the kitchen and grabbed a butcher knife
and ginger walked into every room, holding my breath
and ducking my head. Everything valuable in our
home was stolen. Even my wife’s cherished afghan.
>>>>
It was late at night when we returned from the party,
both tired ready to get some sleep. As I turned the
key, I noticed the door was unlocked. Something was
wrong. Cautiously I nudged the door open just to face
a half-empty house. We’d been burglarized.
Neither the television nor the leather sofa in front of it
remained. My favorite ottoman wasn’t there. The
VCR, the camcorder and the stereo system were all
gone.
I rushed to the kitchen and grabbed a butcher knife
and ginger walked into every room, holding my breath
and ducking my head. Everything valuable in our
home was stolen. Even my wife’s cherished afghan.
>>>>
Déjà Vu
After driving through the crowded
morning streets, I circled the block for the
second time and victoriously slipped into
the ultimate parking spot—the one right
across from my office. This
unprecedented event brightened my
morning. As I was locking the car door
and grinning to myself I noticed a small-
framed man standing on the sidewalk
looking through the window of an office
supply store.
Suddenly, I was overwhelmed with a
peculiar sentiment. I felt like a school boy
again, a lazy pupil with homework full of
mistakes, a student waiting for a severe
punishment. My palms stung from the
soul-piercing pain inflicted by the angry
strikes of the ruler. Confused and
shaken by this sudden event, cautiously I
took a few steps closer to the man who
was calmly standing there, utterly
unaware of my suffering, gazing at the
contents of the stationery shop
showcase. I knew what he was after, the
ruler with the metallic edges. It was his
favorite, the very kind that inflicted the
most pain on my young hands. >>>>
After driving through the crowded
morning streets, I circled the block for the
second time and victoriously slipped into
the ultimate parking spot—the one right
across from my office. This
unprecedented event brightened my
morning. As I was locking the car door
and grinning to myself I noticed a small-
framed man standing on the sidewalk
looking through the window of an office
supply store.
Suddenly, I was overwhelmed with a
peculiar sentiment. I felt like a school boy
again, a lazy pupil with homework full of
mistakes, a student waiting for a severe
punishment. My palms stung from the
soul-piercing pain inflicted by the angry
strikes of the ruler. Confused and
shaken by this sudden event, cautiously I
took a few steps closer to the man who
was calmly standing there, utterly
unaware of my suffering, gazing at the
contents of the stationery shop
showcase. I knew what he was after, the
ruler with the metallic edges. It was his
favorite, the very kind that inflicted the
most pain on my young hands. >>>>
End of a Day
The last day of the month when
Mr. Mahan woke, his mouth
had a strange bitter taste. After
breakfast he checked his
mailbox and found a letter, one
with no sender’s address.
When he looked at the
recipient’s address he was
puzzled, it was written in his
own handwriting as if he had
written it today. He was more
shocked when he noticed the
postmark date. The letter was
mailed over 30 years ago.
He wondered how he could
have received a letter after all
these years, a letter he’d sent
to him. He held the envelope
with two hands before his
dazzled eyes and murmured,
“In the last thirty years, I’ve
moved three or four times. Now
I’m supposed to believe that
the post office is so dedicated
as to track me down after all
these years to deliver this
letter? A letter I never wrote?”
>>>>
The last day of the month when
Mr. Mahan woke, his mouth
had a strange bitter taste. After
breakfast he checked his
mailbox and found a letter, one
with no sender’s address.
When he looked at the
recipient’s address he was
puzzled, it was written in his
own handwriting as if he had
written it today. He was more
shocked when he noticed the
postmark date. The letter was
mailed over 30 years ago.
He wondered how he could
have received a letter after all
these years, a letter he’d sent
to him. He held the envelope
with two hands before his
dazzled eyes and murmured,
“In the last thirty years, I’ve
moved three or four times. Now
I’m supposed to believe that
the post office is so dedicated
as to track me down after all
these years to deliver this
letter? A letter I never wrote?”
>>>>
Jacob
He covered his ears with the palms
of his hands and rose from his
chair tired after writing for hours.
Looking at the pile of papers on his
desk, he threw his pen aside,
massaged his aching fingers and
staggered toward his bed in the
corner. The roaring wind rattled the
window panes. An excruciating pain
radiated through his spine and
while he was whizzing, he wondered
why autumn was not his favorite
season. As he reached his bed, a
muffled voice eerily echoed in his
little room. He moved his face close
to the window and peered into the
darkness and saw nothing but his
own hazy reflection on the glass.
>>>>
He covered his ears with the palms
of his hands and rose from his
chair tired after writing for hours.
Looking at the pile of papers on his
desk, he threw his pen aside,
massaged his aching fingers and
staggered toward his bed in the
corner. The roaring wind rattled the
window panes. An excruciating pain
radiated through his spine and
while he was whizzing, he wondered
why autumn was not his favorite
season. As he reached his bed, a
muffled voice eerily echoed in his
little room. He moved his face close
to the window and peered into the
darkness and saw nothing but his
own hazy reflection on the glass.
>>>>
Girl behind the window
different from where she grew up. The street below was
overrun with the crowd. Tons of young people were
gathered in small circles, passionately arguing. Some held
signs, waving them furiously, heads moved back and forth
and hands cut the air like knives. She’d never seen people
that excited before—what could have made so many
people so angry? She wondered.
She could not read Farsi but recognized the curved letters
with dots in their bellies like pregnant women with triplets.
Letters with mouths half open, hungry enough to swallow
the silent characters sitting innocently next to them and the
sharp blades of others like the sickles peasants used to
harvest. She’d seen them all in books her father read.
The warning from the Center for National Security on the
radio this morning echoed in her head, “Any gathering of
three or more persons on streets is prohibited and illegal.
Perpetrators will be arrested.” She could not estimate the
number of buses required to haul all these criminals to jail.
If people back in America took to the streets so
passionately like this, at least obesity wouldn’t be an issue.
She grinned.
>>>>
different from where she grew up. The street below was
overrun with the crowd. Tons of young people were
gathered in small circles, passionately arguing. Some held
signs, waving them furiously, heads moved back and forth
and hands cut the air like knives. She’d never seen people
that excited before—what could have made so many
people so angry? She wondered.
She could not read Farsi but recognized the curved letters
with dots in their bellies like pregnant women with triplets.
Letters with mouths half open, hungry enough to swallow
the silent characters sitting innocently next to them and the
sharp blades of others like the sickles peasants used to
harvest. She’d seen them all in books her father read.
The warning from the Center for National Security on the
radio this morning echoed in her head, “Any gathering of
three or more persons on streets is prohibited and illegal.
Perpetrators will be arrested.” She could not estimate the
number of buses required to haul all these criminals to jail.
If people back in America took to the streets so
passionately like this, at least obesity wouldn’t be an issue.
She grinned.
>>>>
Shadow
One gray night
In the corner of cold
Under the light of the absent moon
With a suspicious gaze
Through a window frame
That did not open to anywhere
A shadow
That has never been
Is not
And will never be
In the nick of time
When it passed by
The huge tree of memory
Trying to escape
For a second I saw
One gray night
In the corner of cold
Under the light of the absent moon
With a suspicious gaze
Through a window frame
That did not open to anywhere
A shadow
That has never been
Is not
And will never be
In the nick of time
When it passed by
The huge tree of memory
Trying to escape
For a second I saw
My Beloved!
What are you exactly?
To me perhaps,
The distant memories
Of a rowdy child.
The goosebumps I had
In the cold dark cinema
With a frosty Pepsi in my hand.
Or perhaps,
The garlic flavor of bologna
The orange of Fanta
The salt of doogh.
You’re the burning sensation
The sting of punishment
In the palms of my hands.
The painful strikes
Of the merciless sticks
For sloppy homework
And being late to school.
You’re the words I misspelled
When I was dictated to.
You’re scattered in the sweet
Steam of the baked beets
On the street vendor’s cart.
You’re the stripes of the plastic balls
I kicked as a child.
You’re as dark,
As gooey as the melted tar
Stuck to the sole of my bare feet
In the summer heat of Ahwaz.
You’re my classmates
I fought once in a while.
You’re my sore throats
My doctor excuse
My ruthless teachers
In third grade and four.
The slap in my face,
The excruciating pain
When a pencil was squeezed
Between my young fingers.
>>>>
What are you exactly?
To me perhaps,
The distant memories
Of a rowdy child.
The goosebumps I had
In the cold dark cinema
With a frosty Pepsi in my hand.
Or perhaps,
The garlic flavor of bologna
The orange of Fanta
The salt of doogh.
You’re the burning sensation
The sting of punishment
In the palms of my hands.
The painful strikes
Of the merciless sticks
For sloppy homework
And being late to school.
You’re the words I misspelled
When I was dictated to.
You’re scattered in the sweet
Steam of the baked beets
On the street vendor’s cart.
You’re the stripes of the plastic balls
I kicked as a child.
You’re as dark,
As gooey as the melted tar
Stuck to the sole of my bare feet
In the summer heat of Ahwaz.
You’re my classmates
I fought once in a while.
You’re my sore throats
My doctor excuse
My ruthless teachers
In third grade and four.
The slap in my face,
The excruciating pain
When a pencil was squeezed
Between my young fingers.
>>>>
Abstract
...The next Monday evening, I drove forty five minutes
across town in freezing rain to get to the high school where
the class was held. When I arrived at destination, I faced a
massive dark building hibernating under the razor sharp
needles of frozen rain. The ice covered structure callously
had its main entrance locked perhaps to keep out intruders
like myself. The cold wind was slapping my face when I
walked around the building to find an unlocked door. Finally
I noticed a few cars parked by a glass door with inside lights
on. Hastily I entered with art supplies clutched in my
shivering hands and looked around for my class. I was now
ten minutes late.
Anxiously I paced a maze of long gloomy corridors
desperately turning every doorknobs looking for my art
class. The faster I walked, the longer and narrower the
hallways became. The walls were tilting toward each other to
suffocate me. I could hardly breath, my heart was pounding.
It was getting too late and there was no sign of art. Maybe I
was in the wrong building altogether. Maybe the class was
not scheduled for tonight due to the severe weather. As I
was losing hope, a shining spot at the end of the hallway
captured my attention. Frantically, I rushed toward the light
and saw a woman pushing her cleaning cart out of the
restroom. >>>>
...The next Monday evening, I drove forty five minutes
across town in freezing rain to get to the high school where
the class was held. When I arrived at destination, I faced a
massive dark building hibernating under the razor sharp
needles of frozen rain. The ice covered structure callously
had its main entrance locked perhaps to keep out intruders
like myself. The cold wind was slapping my face when I
walked around the building to find an unlocked door. Finally
I noticed a few cars parked by a glass door with inside lights
on. Hastily I entered with art supplies clutched in my
shivering hands and looked around for my class. I was now
ten minutes late.
Anxiously I paced a maze of long gloomy corridors
desperately turning every doorknobs looking for my art
class. The faster I walked, the longer and narrower the
hallways became. The walls were tilting toward each other to
suffocate me. I could hardly breath, my heart was pounding.
It was getting too late and there was no sign of art. Maybe I
was in the wrong building altogether. Maybe the class was
not scheduled for tonight due to the severe weather. As I
was losing hope, a shining spot at the end of the hallway
captured my attention. Frantically, I rushed toward the light
and saw a woman pushing her cleaning cart out of the
restroom. >>>>
Colors of Dream
In a day unlike any other, two toddlers sat
alone and out of their parents’ sight. They
exchanged no words, they just didn’t know
how. Yet, with their impulses, expressions
and gestures, they expressed their utter
eagerness to explore the world in which they’
d recently arrived.
In the midst of their childhood moment and
to their complete surprise, a colorful ball
suddenly fell between them. The vivacious
colors of their new toy painted wide smiles on
their faces. Violet splashed on black, yellow
curved into white and purple tickled green.
Orange bumped into gray, scarlet giggled
with red to make cobalt feel so blue. >>>>
In a day unlike any other, two toddlers sat
alone and out of their parents’ sight. They
exchanged no words, they just didn’t know
how. Yet, with their impulses, expressions
and gestures, they expressed their utter
eagerness to explore the world in which they’
d recently arrived.
In the midst of their childhood moment and
to their complete surprise, a colorful ball
suddenly fell between them. The vivacious
colors of their new toy painted wide smiles on
their faces. Violet splashed on black, yellow
curved into white and purple tickled green.
Orange bumped into gray, scarlet giggled
with red to make cobalt feel so blue. >>>>
Jen
My ominous association with ghosts goes back to
my early childhood years. Aunt Sedighe my
father’s youngest sister lived in Shoushtar, one
of the oldest cities in the world, dating back to
Achaemenian dynasty (400 BC). Shoushtar used
to be the winter capital of Sassanian dynasty and
it was built by the Karoun River. The river was
channeled to form a trench around the city. A
subterranean system called ghanats connected
the river to the private reservoirs of houses and
buildings, supplied water during times of war
when the main gates were closed. The ruins of
these ghanats still exist and one was connected
to aunt Sedeghe’s house where my cousins and I
explored if we dared to.
We were told that her house was the primary
residence of Jens and their immediate families. I
never was a big fan of ghosts especially the ones
who lived in my aunt’s house. I did not care for
their demeanor as these creatures scared the
hell out of me when we visited my aunt in
Shoushtar. Although I was forewarned about
Jens and their tendency to possess children, I
never refused to play in the basement and
explore deep inside the ghanat. Yet, the never
ending maze connected to her basement was too
narrow, too long, too dark and too creepy to
conquer. >>>>
My ominous association with ghosts goes back to
my early childhood years. Aunt Sedighe my
father’s youngest sister lived in Shoushtar, one
of the oldest cities in the world, dating back to
Achaemenian dynasty (400 BC). Shoushtar used
to be the winter capital of Sassanian dynasty and
it was built by the Karoun River. The river was
channeled to form a trench around the city. A
subterranean system called ghanats connected
the river to the private reservoirs of houses and
buildings, supplied water during times of war
when the main gates were closed. The ruins of
these ghanats still exist and one was connected
to aunt Sedeghe’s house where my cousins and I
explored if we dared to.
We were told that her house was the primary
residence of Jens and their immediate families. I
never was a big fan of ghosts especially the ones
who lived in my aunt’s house. I did not care for
their demeanor as these creatures scared the
hell out of me when we visited my aunt in
Shoushtar. Although I was forewarned about
Jens and their tendency to possess children, I
never refused to play in the basement and
explore deep inside the ghanat. Yet, the never
ending maze connected to her basement was too
narrow, too long, too dark and too creepy to
conquer. >>>>
Apocalypse
On the porch leaning against the wall with a cup of
coffee in my hand, I was wondering if I was qualified
to refinance my home mortgage at a lower rate.
The voice of the meteorologist on the television
who said “enjoy your sunny weekend” in the
background echoed in my ears. Nothing was out of
ordinary that Sunday afternoon when suddenly the
ground beneath my feet trembled. I felt an eerie
force pressing down on earth, a silent roar
perhaps, a motionless storm. The long rows of
enormous trees on both sides of street shivered in
concert. Houses shuddered and every parked car
wobbled. Before I could react, the next door house
crumbled before my eyes. The ground cracked
open and the entire stretch of houses in the
neighborhood drifted away. The chasm in the earth
widened with a furious blast and the entire city
block ripped apart. In a matter of minutes the same
calamity occurred as far as my eyes could see. An
invisible dagger viciously slaughtered the planet in
my bewildered presence. >>>>
On the porch leaning against the wall with a cup of
coffee in my hand, I was wondering if I was qualified
to refinance my home mortgage at a lower rate.
The voice of the meteorologist on the television
who said “enjoy your sunny weekend” in the
background echoed in my ears. Nothing was out of
ordinary that Sunday afternoon when suddenly the
ground beneath my feet trembled. I felt an eerie
force pressing down on earth, a silent roar
perhaps, a motionless storm. The long rows of
enormous trees on both sides of street shivered in
concert. Houses shuddered and every parked car
wobbled. Before I could react, the next door house
crumbled before my eyes. The ground cracked
open and the entire stretch of houses in the
neighborhood drifted away. The chasm in the earth
widened with a furious blast and the entire city
block ripped apart. In a matter of minutes the same
calamity occurred as far as my eyes could see. An
invisible dagger viciously slaughtered the planet in
my bewildered presence. >>>>
Baby Bride*
The best day of my life was when mom bought me the Princess
Saba in her long white dress covered with thousands of colorful
tinsels. Her lush blonde hair falling over her chest was so shiny
that when in stared at them it was like staring into the sun. Her
eyes were blue, the type that open and close. Every day I
combed her hair, I touch her breasts hoping one day mine would
grow like them. My only wish was to become a bride just like the
Princess with blonde hair, blue eyes, red lips and white gown.
Princess Saba always slept in my bed. As soon as she laid her
head on the pillow, her eyes closed and she went to a deep sleep
like a Princess as she was. She never woke by the barking stray
dogs in the streets or by the roaring thunder. Unlike her I was
scared of both vicious dogs outside and the horrific sound of
thunder and worse than all I was I was so terrified of Mohsen,
the gigantic boy who lived in our neighborhood, two streets
behind us. Whenever he found me alone, he rushed and grabbed
me tight, groped me and sneered, “I finally got you.” And as
soon as I burst in tears and screamed, he let go of me and ran
away. >>>>
The best day of my life was when mom bought me the Princess
Saba in her long white dress covered with thousands of colorful
tinsels. Her lush blonde hair falling over her chest was so shiny
that when in stared at them it was like staring into the sun. Her
eyes were blue, the type that open and close. Every day I
combed her hair, I touch her breasts hoping one day mine would
grow like them. My only wish was to become a bride just like the
Princess with blonde hair, blue eyes, red lips and white gown.
Princess Saba always slept in my bed. As soon as she laid her
head on the pillow, her eyes closed and she went to a deep sleep
like a Princess as she was. She never woke by the barking stray
dogs in the streets or by the roaring thunder. Unlike her I was
scared of both vicious dogs outside and the horrific sound of
thunder and worse than all I was I was so terrified of Mohsen,
the gigantic boy who lived in our neighborhood, two streets
behind us. Whenever he found me alone, he rushed and grabbed
me tight, groped me and sneered, “I finally got you.” And as
soon as I burst in tears and screamed, he let go of me and ran
away. >>>>
Sinful Urge
Neither the soothing sound of breeze, nor the
tweeting birds or the melody of rain played on
the stereo system in my bedroom gave me the
comfort I deserved. My mind was inescapably
trapped by a grueling urge throwing my entire
body into painful disarray. Once again I was
captivated by an insatiable craving in the
middle of the night. By hardly lifting my eyelids,
I was persuaded by the heavy burden of their
weight it was too early to be tomorrow, the
torment was bound to linger on. I made a
desperate effort to ignore my desire by turning
from shoulder to shoulder for a while or lying
on my back and thinking of the least simulating
subjects to distract me from the sinful wanting
of the night. Yet my futile effort faded in the
pale layers of passion-stricken bed sheets.
The more I resisted the fever, the more burning
the temptation became. >>>>
Neither the soothing sound of breeze, nor the
tweeting birds or the melody of rain played on
the stereo system in my bedroom gave me the
comfort I deserved. My mind was inescapably
trapped by a grueling urge throwing my entire
body into painful disarray. Once again I was
captivated by an insatiable craving in the
middle of the night. By hardly lifting my eyelids,
I was persuaded by the heavy burden of their
weight it was too early to be tomorrow, the
torment was bound to linger on. I made a
desperate effort to ignore my desire by turning
from shoulder to shoulder for a while or lying
on my back and thinking of the least simulating
subjects to distract me from the sinful wanting
of the night. Yet my futile effort faded in the
pale layers of passion-stricken bed sheets.
The more I resisted the fever, the more burning
the temptation became. >>>>
Lost
The bitter sting of tobacco poisoned my
mouth. I’m nauseated when I sluggishly
stretch my torso and emerge from the
layers of bed sheets and peer out the
tarnished window. The rain has
carelessly soaked every crooked building,
scrubbed the dirty asphalt and now is
pouring down the broken gutters. Its guilty
claws scratched every wall and its
fingerprints are all over the windows. The
sewers are puking in disgust.
In the empty street the traffic light rules
like a ruthless tyrant with its disciplined
change of colors. It viciously splutters red
on the puddle of rainwater like the spilled
blood of a lonely victim. Then its mood
swings to a jolly green as if no crime was
committed just a few seconds ago. Yet its
short lived mania is bound to turn into dull
amber. >>>>
The bitter sting of tobacco poisoned my
mouth. I’m nauseated when I sluggishly
stretch my torso and emerge from the
layers of bed sheets and peer out the
tarnished window. The rain has
carelessly soaked every crooked building,
scrubbed the dirty asphalt and now is
pouring down the broken gutters. Its guilty
claws scratched every wall and its
fingerprints are all over the windows. The
sewers are puking in disgust.
In the empty street the traffic light rules
like a ruthless tyrant with its disciplined
change of colors. It viciously splutters red
on the puddle of rainwater like the spilled
blood of a lonely victim. Then its mood
swings to a jolly green as if no crime was
committed just a few seconds ago. Yet its
short lived mania is bound to turn into dull
amber. >>>>
Waiting
The old man is here to visit his son, he does that
every month. Now he must be sitting alone in his
son’s empty room gazing through his thick glasses
at the tarnished flowers woven into the heart of the
Persian rug. Once again I go there and stand by
the door watching him in silence.
Each time he exhales—wheezing—he launches a
desperate storm to drive the ship of death from his
shore of life. When he speaks, he mocks death just
by the movement of his lips. To stand, he pushes
the palms of his hands vigorously on the ground as
he is getting himself off the chest of his defeated
enemy. As audaciously as he defies his destiny, the
opponent is inflicting lethal wounds on him with his
every move he makes. Time is on his enemy’s side
and the waiting is not the old man’s weapon of
choice.>>>>
The old man is here to visit his son, he does that
every month. Now he must be sitting alone in his
son’s empty room gazing through his thick glasses
at the tarnished flowers woven into the heart of the
Persian rug. Once again I go there and stand by
the door watching him in silence.
Each time he exhales—wheezing—he launches a
desperate storm to drive the ship of death from his
shore of life. When he speaks, he mocks death just
by the movement of his lips. To stand, he pushes
the palms of his hands vigorously on the ground as
he is getting himself off the chest of his defeated
enemy. As audaciously as he defies his destiny, the
opponent is inflicting lethal wounds on him with his
every move he makes. Time is on his enemy’s side
and the waiting is not the old man’s weapon of
choice.>>>>
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Prisoner
I reside on the top level of a skyscraper, so
high in the sky that I’m too scared to look
down. When I look out the window-the only
opening to outside world- all I see is thick cloud
below and infinite sky above. My residence has
no door. I have no way of communicating with
outside world, if such thing exists. I’ve lived in a
solitary confinement all my life, yet I have no
complains. I’m quite comfortable. I don’t know
how but I never run out of food or water. I’m
healthy therefore no medical attention is
necessary. I don’t even feel lonely so I don’t
need companionship.
How did I end up here? How long I lived and
how long I will, are the existential questions of
my life. My recent memories are insignificant
and the long term recollections might be the
figments of my imagination. My mere existence
might be a dream. Either I live in my own
dream or in someone else’s therefore, I am
temporary. Either the reality of my life is a
reflection of my dreams or the other way
around. Either I wake up and realize I don’t
exist anymore or someone else will soon
realize I was a dream. This is bound to happen
sooner or later. >>>>
I reside on the top level of a skyscraper, so
high in the sky that I’m too scared to look
down. When I look out the window-the only
opening to outside world- all I see is thick cloud
below and infinite sky above. My residence has
no door. I have no way of communicating with
outside world, if such thing exists. I’ve lived in a
solitary confinement all my life, yet I have no
complains. I’m quite comfortable. I don’t know
how but I never run out of food or water. I’m
healthy therefore no medical attention is
necessary. I don’t even feel lonely so I don’t
need companionship.
How did I end up here? How long I lived and
how long I will, are the existential questions of
my life. My recent memories are insignificant
and the long term recollections might be the
figments of my imagination. My mere existence
might be a dream. Either I live in my own
dream or in someone else’s therefore, I am
temporary. Either the reality of my life is a
reflection of my dreams or the other way
around. Either I wake up and realize I don’t
exist anymore or someone else will soon
realize I was a dream. This is bound to happen
sooner or later. >>>>
