I have been going through an un-nostalgic phase. For the first time in 13 years since my immigration to the States, I have no nostalgia. I don’t miss childhood, or the waves and the Caspian Sea, or even the apartment we sold to strangers.
I cannot say that I am free yet, for I am still fighting an internal struggle. But I am not nostalgic, and a heavy weight has been lifted off my chest. In this un-nostalgic state however, I have lost my power to write. I do not wish to write of memories, though they still remain bitterly present. I do not wish to recall anything, though there is still much to be remembered.
In this state, I would like to find myself again. I would like to write again, and perhaps in a new way.
Until then, my silence is indefinite.