the cumulative-oriented, uncertain mind

that’s precisely what makes me who I am, with a circle this small, wings obviously so short, and a mind so severely self-censoring,

staying where no one else perhaps would, persevering for way longer than anyone perhaps should,

does that make me dormant, naive and unambitious, insecure or broken, pathetic? obsessive, unintelligent, dumb or weak, severely lacking self respect? there is no end to the list of reductionist labels that intimidate and yet, scream ‘valid’.

Or can it be instead that I’m single-hearted and affectionate, worthy of my human label?

Now, how do I explain my tendency to be  so indecisive and unassertive, is that to be blamed on poor self esteem? lack of vision?

Or is it perhaps proof of how small and unaware one is in the grand scheme of the universe and everything it carries within its past, present and entire shimmering existence,

why have I been molded into an explanation machine? To constantly bear the pressure of  thinking critically, articulating my ideas, defending my tendencies. turn into a self-critical trainwreck  heading for its explosion.

I will certainly keep floating, uncertain,  unsettled, always searching.

let that keep me a lost stranger.



چیستای خوب‌ و زیبای ما،

دلم راضی نشد قصه ات را خوانده باشم و چند خطی ننوشته باقی این نیروی خوب را موکول کنم به بعد از چاپ پستچی ِکاغذی.

آشنایی من با چیستا و علی خیلی اتفاقی بود، مثل بیشتر پیشامدهای خوبِ زندگی. 

دنیای پستچیِ تلگرامی، در کنار جذابیت های زیرکانه و در عین امروزی بودن جلد و صفحه هایش، یادآور سرزمینی ست که قلبش جایی پشت مرزها و زاویه های دنیای حسابگرمان می تپد. 

نمی شود گفت بهتر است یا بدتر. وجودش اما مثل بستنی اول قصه ات از جنس دیگری ست. هوایش نفس کشیدن در رگبارهای کوتاه و روشن بهاری را می ماند، آدم را یاد همه ی وسعت آدمیزاد بودنش می اندازد. یاد رگ و پی و ولوله ی چپیده در دلش، یاد آشنا ترین گوشه های وجودش. از یک خواب بلند زمستانی پریده باشی انگار، آدم را به رقص و پرواز در می آورد این هوای بکر.

رسم چیستای تو به اندازه ی همان بال ها و نفس ها و مردمک های گشوده به دل آدم می نشیند. مخصوصا اگر حکایت عشق آدم مثل چیستا باورنکردنی باشد‌ و نوای دلش یک روز، به بهای عشقش چربیده باشد.



I think back of all the people that have tickled and caressed my soul in fresh ways over the course of the final year of my twenties – soon to be complete.

I would be lying if I said I am not terrified of acknowledging how far I stand from the day I was born.

I would be lying if I say I’m standing exactly where I had pictured myself five years ago or that I am completely sure of how tall I would be standing in five years.

What I do know is I will be heading into the thirties feeling a tad bit more comfortable with the idea of being disappointed over and over before I stumble into human beings that ignite, hammer and polish my mind.

I have discovered many beautiful minds along my way without even looking.
I’ve been pleasantly inspired, opened up, laughed and learned and been fascinated beyond the typical everyday encounters without concsiously trying,

and I will have my restored optimism as my takeaway for the years and pages that follow.