The smell and aura of the restaurant have possessed me. The candles are lit, it’s dark and everything is in harmony; there is a balance between the diners and the restaurant. There is a special elegance about this place that I’m madly in love with.
A man smokes and I watch the smoke disappear into the air. He is enjoying his cigarette and wine. I’m enjoying his enjoyment, though I have nothing of my own except a sentence in my head.
The Moroccan waiter passes by a couple of times and we make eye contact. He cajoles with a couple and asks the woman, “you’re not getting drunk tonight?” and the woman laughs and says, “No, not tonight.”
He smokes and I like to sit with him and take a puff. I hate the smell of cigarettes, but I love to watch people hold them in their hands like they’re candy, or a sweet companion. It’s a temporary, evanescent escape, but so is everything else.
Everything, like this restaurant, the feeling I have, the things I see, and the thoughts I have are all momentary…like falling in and out of love, like being kissed, like drinking wine, like every day that passes by.
We live in impermanency, in moments that cease to last, in déjà vu…The pleasure of the wine, the cigarette, the kiss, the hello and good-bye lasts for a second or two, and then it’s gone.
It’s raining outside by the time I leave and I suddenly like it…temporarily…

I look at their innocent faces, their feigned smiles, their glaring eyes, their lost expressions. And I wonder. I wonder if in four years, they’ll know who they are. I wonder if in four years, these newcomers will have learned the tricks and games of this day-to-day game. I wonder if in four years, their smiles will be natural, automatic, as if to spell out who they are.
I flip through pages of this year’s yearbook. I look at faces and wonder what’s behind their taunting eyes or expressionless faces or the sadness that has sunk deep within them. I recognize some like S’s sister who is neglected of her mother’s love. I recognize a girl who was already a mother as a freshman and is now raising her toddler.
It’s hard to look at these photographs and not pause, not think of each and every one of these individuals who have tales that someone should care to tell. It’s hard to just look and think it’s just another freshman who won’t make it, who’ll drop out in two years, who’ll never get it right.
I wonder if a bright future awaits everyone. I wonder if everyone wants that future…

After three nights of partying, I can finally sit and rest. I haven’t been inspired lately and feel as though something is missing. But there was always something missing and it seldom bothered me. Like the trips we took, like the card games we played late at night, like the gatherings we had every Friday night.
My mind is in a state of peace and it doesn’t want to replay old memories, old stories from those days…
My mother misses me I think. But I don’t think of her; maybe I should.
I can’t think of what is missing, maybe if I think harder, I’ll figure it out.

They are wasted. They are drunk. They are addicted to cigarettes. They smoke so much that I feel like I’m smoking with them. My clothes stink; I’m a cigarette.
I’m disgusted. I’m disgusted by this atmosphere, by their fake sincerities and hellos. I’m disgusted by their attitudes, their Gucci bags and Versace sunglasses. I’m disgusted and I’m tired of bumping into people as I struggle to dance.
The speakers are so close to my ears that I’m almost deaf. A woman with fake, blond hair pushes me aside as she tries to pass through. Another woman steps on my foot with her high heel. She continues to dance with her husband while I’m in so much pain and feel like breaking her neck.
A man comes between us, wanting to accompany us because we are beautiful and are not taken. We ignore him. He leaves after a couple of minutes; it’s just me and her again.
We dance to songs that bring back memories from a past that is so far away now. We dance to songs that liberated us when the world was our small villa by the Caspian Sea. We dance to songs that we grew up with…but now that I’m dancing, I’m wearing too much eyeliner, I’m sweating, I’m being pushed and stepped on, and I’m trapped…This is a different liberation…
I can’t take it anymore…there is too much smoke. We leave and a cute Persian boy says salam (hi). It’s too late now, I think, you should have said hello when we were inside, dancing…
I’m so glad to be home now, out of these stinky clothes, away from a wasted, addicted, drunk crowd…

The waiter brings our coffees and cream; the coffees are cold but we are not in the mood to complain. We are not in the mood to discuss pointless matters.
I take a sip, disregarding how bitter and cold it is, and reveal that I made a mistake by choosing to stay in Virginia. I admit that I would have preferred New York, but that’s hardly a revelation. I admit that I would have preferred the city and its temptations. I would have wanted New York over the empty roads here in Virginia, the roads that always come to a dead-end and leave me without options, without choices, without possibilities to explore…
But I was scared. I was not ready. I was more afraid of getting lost in the big city and being alone than a temporary dissatisfaction here in this beautiful yet stagnant town…
I push the coffee aside and stare into a night empty of stars…
But you have to pay a price for what you choose, for what you want. Everything is worth something. Your dreams cost hard work, determination, sacrifice, time. Sometimes a dollar bill is not the only cost that comes with what you want. Sometimes what you want is only worth one try, one risk, one sleepless night.
I leave the money on the table where my unfinished cup of coffee sits still. That’s the only price I’ve paid tonight…

Children scare me. Children are incomprehensible to me. They’re too complicated for me to analyze, for me to understand, for me to learn. I don’t understand their imaginations, their questions that seldom have an answer, their curiosity, their rudeness, their misunderstanding of the world around them.
Sometimes I want to remember what kind of child I was. I want to remember if I asked the same questions, if I had imaginary friends, if I yelled or screamed for not getting the toy I wanted. But I don’t remember. I don’t remember…and I wish I could.
When I see a mother holding that small, tiny hand, I fear that one day I will make the same mistake, the mistake of motherhood. When I see a mother holding a tiny baby in her arms, I can’t imagine being that selfless, selfless enough to make sacrifices, to give up things, to give up my morning sleep, to take care of a little person that needs extra attention. I can’t imagine being selfless enough to love that child the way mothers do, to love it unconditionally. I can’t imagine being selfless enough to raise a child, who knows nothing, who has so much to learn, has so many needs. I won’t know how to answer a child’s question. I don’t know those answers. I don’t know why the sky is blue, I don’t know if there is a heaven or hell. I just don’t know.
Maybe I’m still a child. Maybe I don’t know how to be selfless yet. Maybe I still need a hand to hold mine. Maybe I’m just afraid of letting go of mother’s hand…maybe I’m still a child who doesn’t want to grow up.

I’m standing alone on steps. The night is pitch black, so black that even a star can’t be seen. What is the sky trying to shield, what is it trying to hide? Doesn’t it know that I need light, that I need to see where I’m headed to?
My shadow stands tall, like the tree next to me. This tree has lived longer though, it has lived through many storms and hurricanes, it has so many leaves, branches that stretch far.
Against the pitch black sky, this green tree stands tall next to me, as if it were protecting me, letting me know I’m not alone. I have found a companion on this empty street. I have found a shield to protect me tonight.
I walk down the steps and walk toward her car…who is going to protect me now?

Mother says I started tearing my fingernails when my father left Iran. That’s her way of psychoanalyzing it. Maybe there is a connection, maybe not.
So I never have perfect nails. Sometimes I barely have any. Women in the family like to lecture me about it. They like to say a lady should take care of herself, manicure her nails, not leave fainted polish on them, not bite or tear them into pieces.
But I’ve gotten addicted to this nasty habit, to this addiction. It relieves my tensions, it gives me something to do, it keeps me busy.
With a mother and sister both obsessed with perfection, I’m probably the most imperfect woman in the family. I’m obsessed with writing, with getting things done, with being on time, with being there for people, with analyzing and thinking, but I’m no where close to perfect, to being flawless. The external world doesn’t have to be perfect for me, a bed doesn’t have to be made, a sink doesn’t have to be empty of dirty dishes. But my internal thoughts, my intentions, my goals have to be almost near perfection.
Perfection is boring. Being imperfect, being messy, being mismatched and perfectly flawed, that’s exciting…that’s who I am.

People always say new beginnings are good. New beginnings are exciting, full of surprises, adventurous, a chance to try different things, find out more about so and so, blah blah blah…
But what if you’re tired of starting over, starting fresh, making new adjustments and getting used to what you are not used to? What if you’re scared because you don’t know if you’ll make it again, if you’ll have supporters, helpers, what if you are uncertain and unready for another jump, another big step?
We have four more days left of high school and we’re scared, at least some of us. Let me change that back to “I”. I am scared, not because I don’t trust myself, not because I think I’ll lose myself again. I’m scared because I have to get used to it. Whatever that it will be.
I got used to America, I got used to being away from home, from people I love, I got used to it all and damn it…I’m just tired of doing it all over again.

As I read the opening pages of Lolita, a woman who seems to be speaking Russian, catches my attention. She doesn’t have a luminous face nor does she appear mysterious. What appeals to me are her pearls, the perfectly round white pearls around her neck.
She and an old Russian man are busy talking to each other. The man has a hunch and appears older, though is most likely not her father.
I continue reading Lolita and just as I get close to escaping reality and entering the world of Humbert Humbert, my mind sidetracks and I look up to see the two of them talking. They are discussing Russia’s politics or perhaps they’re having a more casual conversation, like one about literature and art. Maybe they’re just talking pearls.
“Who gave you those pearls?” the man is asking.
“Oh it was so long ago, but I believe they were my sister’s.”
Whether they’re really talking about the pearls is an unimportant factor, incidental, even irrelevant to the matter. The subject of interest is simply the white pearls that have a definite shape, unlike the fictitious books that can always be interpreted differently.
The things that never fail to bring us back to reality are facts, figures, solids, things we can touch, feel, smell. Even pearls around a woman’s neck have the power to destroy a fictional masterpiece.