On the highway to Baltimore, you can go 65 miles per hour. Once you reach that speed, you no longer feel how fast you are going. Your body and mind both adjust to the speed, you go back to your regular conversation with whoever is accompanying you, and everything outside, the trees, houses, cars, and other objects become smaller and smaller. This is a good speed. It’s not too safe and not too crazy, an average of all the limits.
On our way to Baltimore, the sky splits into two layers of pink and purple. Things are happening fast and I can’t feel if winds are changing, or if this is just what happens on a late September evening. I tell her to look at this pretty sight, but she is watching the road, and what’s ahead. What’s ahead of us is really just one vast pathway, wide and open, limitless, but indefinite. What’s ahead are cars that fly forward in a speed that has long surpassed 65. What’s ahead are birds that fly in shape of a V, the way kids draw them on paper, over and over again. What’s ahead of us, of me and her, is an illusive picture, one of those dreams we created long ago and left abandoned because there was simply no time to ponder about it. Inside that picture, somewhere behind the colored clouds and diffused sounds, we each think of that pleasing state of nature, and there comes a beautiful silence in which we fly forward, in our own dreams, in our own indefinite stopping points.
Mano to ashegh nashodim…Delaye ma par nadaran.
You and I did not fall in love…our hearts have no wings.
Lost in that beautiful, sad song, we drive to Baltimore, meet with M and his wife, and are introduced to M’s college friend Amir. In the night, we walk the dead town, drink coffee, and find things to talk about. We are all the same, lost in our forsaken lands, always retelling the stories of how we got here.
On our way back, in a pitch black curtain, we wish that our hearts had wings. Then, maybe, we could fly, indefinitely.

I like that I sleep on a bed with a green blanket. The design is simple: funky swirls, circles, round, lime and dark. But the metal bars hurt my back when I lean against them to read, or write. At night, as I sleep, turning my body, my feet touch the bars and I feel caged in. I want to break free, but my feet don’t move, I am bounded. This happens often in the night, tossing, turning.
I fall. At last. And there is just darkness, a tunnel in which the subconscious lies. I dream about a boy who holds me. I do not know his name, but he looks familiar, like we’ve met before in another time. The car moves, and she turns her head, looking at us, nodding approval, smiling, sweet and candid. He continues to play with my hair. I am wrapped around him, warm, like how I am wrapped in my blanket. The driver, she doesn’t look back. She drives without words. How peaceful I feel, wrapped in his warmness, and filled with tranquility, still touched by her repeating smile.
Morning. I remember us, and how she smiled like she was happy. But the other one, she had said nothing. My mother had said nothing the whole time, but drove on, somewhere else. She was not ours.

Trembling
Like a child
I run, a little farther
And there is home
Shaking and numb
I can still feel his hands
Holding me against his
Foreign, unknown, cold
His body, a territory I know not
This stranger who holds me
For what seems an eternal time
I pray, for that is all I know
Afraid
Will he take me away?
And then he leaves
I can still hear his motorbike
Fading, the wheels crashing
An eternal ring in my ears
I run, a little farther
And there is home
I am safe
Still, hearing the sound of his fading motorbike
Farther and farther, until no longer…

There is a bittersweet thunderstorm that has kept me awake, eager to write, even inspired. I don’t want it to end. It’s sort of nice, anticipating the loud thunder right after the lightning. I’ve been meaning to write all day and now, as night ends, I’ve found the perfect time to start.
Lately, everyone is leaving. My younger friends from high school are leaving town for college. Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one who stayed. But I’ve been thinking more about it, and the more I think, the more I feel that I did what was best for me at the time. I considered all of my options. And now, in this bittersweet rainstorm, I feel good about being here. It’s strange, for a part of me has always wanted to run. But for the first time everything feels right, like I did everything for the right reasons. So many things have happened; I have changed so much. I even want to say that I did unwind, a lot more than I thought possible. I know so much more now about myself and why I’ve chosen this path.
And yet, running from here is a thrilling thought. Walking out, driving away as if there is no tomorrow, rolling the windows down all the way, and pushing on gas.
Maybe we just need time to know ourselves better, to see what we love and don’t love, what we want and what we are afraid of. Part of me will always be afraid. Part of me will always prefer something secure, something familiar. And then, there will be that one day where the other part will take over, breaking all the rules, running for an ideal dream.

Funny how I missed Brussels’ rain as it rained today. Funny because I’m not fond of rain but still have a preference. In Belgium, the rain was exciting, fast and rapid; the sky would literally tear. That’s the kind of rain I like, one that makes your heart beat faster, one that gives you a rush, makes you want to take part. Here, it was dull, maybe because summer is just about over. It was so dull that I didn’t want to hear it, or even open my window, or feel it. I had no interest to be involved.
Exciting things, however, are happening. We are buying a house, a very pretty one with lots of windows. I’ve never lived in a house. So far, I have revealed no interest. I have not yet seen it. I was not part of the house-hunting so Maman thinks it’s because I’m “stepping out of the family”. “You don’t feel like you are a part of us anymore, do you?” she says and it pisses me off every time. Of course, it’s just Maman’s silly joke, but I wonder, am I really here? Am I honestly part of anything? Or have I become so deluded by ideas of life in New York, London, or Spain?
She is not right, but I’m afraid I have become an outsider in much of what goes on around here. I look at everything as a temporary matter, something I have to do in order to get to the real thing, the real dream, the ideal life. I was never an ideologist, but I have turned into a demanding perfectionist, not in a literal way, but figuratively. I want these perfect life pictures that take part away from here.
Today I was talking with Maman and she suddenly said, “I’ll miss you once you leave for the city”. And I realized, to her, I am already half-way gone.

I miss you, not because you are not here, not because you are too busy, but because you have no obligation to miss me, to give me your time. I miss you because I felt like I was learning something everyday just by talking to you, just by listening to your bizarre stories. And now that we are no longer obligated to see each other, to learn from each other and be taught, I suddenly miss you. And I don’t feel bad about saying it, admitting it, writing it, or even feeling it.
I never felt obligated. I just wanted to be there because there was always something that kept me coming back. But somehow I feel you were obligated in a way, out of respect for me.
I could be wrong.
But I miss you anyway.

When you start writing, teachers start telling you about the rules. They tell you the difference between their and there. They tell you to watch out for commas, fragments and run-on sentences. They tell you about apostrophes, it’s and it is. They also tell you not to start a sentence with an “it”, an antecedent. But what they forget to tell you is that once you’re good, you can break these rules once in a while. It’s okay to be unruly, to avoid rules of grammar, to start a sentence with “it”. You have to be good enough to break the rules. As long as you are aware of your violation, it’s okay.
I like breaking rules. The one time in the day that I get to be unsafe, candid, open, unruly and carefree is when I write. When I put my words on paper. When I try different things, different styles, different tones and words. It’s like I’m suddenly brave. I can write anything I choose, anything from the past, from the present moment as I sip my tea, or from the future that often times is too scary to mention. And I know that sometimes I violate the rules of writing carelessly; I become so involved in what I want that I neglect what I’ve been taught and miss the possibility of having a great piece. But, then it doesn’t matter because I feel that it is by retaliating and experiencing that you become better. In a way, it’s like a self-teaching style; you learn from your mistakes, from your bad choices. You read that sentence with the fragments and the inappropriate repetitions and you realize it needs to be polished, that it needs work, that after all, it should have been avoided. You learn to catch bad sentences that don’t quite sound right, that don’t ring, that don’t flow. But if you are always safe, and never taking a chance at breaking a rule here and there, you never learn on your own. Instead you become dependent on others to guide you, to show you the way, to bring your point to an end. You are too timid to change your style, to play with words, to look at other synonyms, to open up about how you really feel, about what you really want to say.
So maybe I am careful when I live my life everyday, from the moment I get up ’till I fall asleep. Maybe I take the same routes because I know them, because they are familiar. Maybe I avoid things I don’t know well, for reasons of my own. But I can’t be told how to write, not anymore. When I write for myself, I want to be free and out in the open. That way, I can escape from all the rules I follow during the day. That way, I can be myself, my own guide.
It’s okay to take a chance and not write what they tell you. It’s okay to write a sentence that is too long to read under one breath because maybe it was meant that way and cutting it could have killed what you really wanted to say.

He stretched his arm before me, offering me a small, single white rose. I couldn’t help but to take it. It’s not often that someone forces a flower into your hand as you’re walking down a street, minding your own world, talking to your friend, occupied in conversation. We both accepted his flowers; it was impossible not to. He said he does this to make people happy, because after all, flowers are supposed to make us happy. He asked for a dollar; S reached into her purse and handed him a bill. And then he was gone, leaving us a little dumbfounded in the middle of K Street in DC, the roses in our hands. We’d forgotten what we were previously talking about; instead we talked about the man and the flowers. That it was nice of him to carry them around in the hopes of pleasing a few faces and some cash, even in the late hours of dusk.
I wondered if anyone else would bother to accept his offer. But then I figured most people would probably ignore him, thinking he is just another beggar who has no life. But is it really insane to make someone happy and get a buck in return? Is it really that insane to accept a rose? Why do we always run away from the unexpected, from someone on the street who makes music or sells flowers or simply says hello to us? Why are we always scared of what or who we might run into? Why are we always afraid to look at them in the eye and answer back?
In a culture of right and wrong, we’ve been taught to be careful, to avoid strangers, to keep to ourselves. We’ve been taught to not take chances, to think of the consequences of our actions. We’ve been taught to think before we speak. It is no wonder that we’ve become such difficult beings, calculating and meticulous. It is no wonder that we look away at those who don’t fit our definition of sane, normal and appropriate. It is no wonder that we are so good at avoiding the unexpected, the unknown, the unfit.
I don’t want to be like that anymore. I don’t want to be afraid. I want to say hi back to a stranger. I want to forget the ideal that defines our norm. I want to watch and listen to a man who plays drums on plastic buckets and shopping carts. I want to listen to a man who talks to himself, or sings in public. I want to laugh with them, even if no one else does.
He also advised us to keep the flowers in water, so they live on. I liked that he cared so much, that he wanted to make sure we took care of his gift. That night, I filled a small cup with water and put my white rose inside, happy that I had listened.

We met B in Georgetown, wondering what his new girlfriend Nicole looked like. Having seen his last girlfriend, I anticipated someone fashionable, with dirty blond hair and heavy lipstick. B, like the typical Iranian man, likes to show off his stature. Of course, we never pictured him with an American blond, for he is man of traditional taste. I always picture people I am supposed to meet. I don’t know what I base my creation on, but it is there, the presumed face of a stranger. So when I met Nicole, I was most definitely surprised by her simplicity. I had expected a more superficial look, a look that men like B love to be seen in public with. Looks that are too beautiful in the most unnatural way. But Nicole was exceptionally austere. Her blond locks fell just a little above her slender shoulders. She was tall with a very slender body. I searched her face for a sign of make up, but didn’t find even a touch of mascara. Perhaps it was this casual demeanor of hers that was most attracting, the fact that she was real, out in the open, hiding nothing.
We spoke Farsi, me, R, B, and his friend Ahoora. Nicole didn’t mind. B said it’s better for her to learn this way, listening to us converse in a foreign tongue. The streets were louder than usual, the crowd happier, drunk. The Potomac River looked the same, gorgeous under the moonlight and stars, unreachable and diffusing. The five us found a bench and looked over to the boats of rich, mostly white crowds. We were so far away from them, as if we were looking at a picture on a screen tv. I somehow felt that my companions were aware of the distance between us and them. B looked at us and said, “if we just had one of these boats, that would have been it.” I looked at the pretty white boat, the couple on the deck, kissing, drinks in hand, with the music blasting. I then realize that I didn’t want a boat, nor did I want the rest of what was happening inside the screen I was looking into. I didn’t want any of it. I wasn’t happy in my own state, but I knew whatever they had wouldn’t make me happy either.
Indifferent, I left Georgetown with the rest. I was tired, still jet lagged from Tuesday’s flight back home. On the way back, I told R that I liked Nicole. She said she did too. I think we both wondered how long their strange relationship would last.

I walked out of the airport into the stale, humid air of Washington, dragging my suitcase to where taxis parked. The taxi driver was a dark, middle-aged man, maybe in his early forties, who politely asked where I was coming from. I explained that I spent some time in Belgium. He asked if I were from there, and I said that I was Iranian. Something in his half a smile told me that he was from the same area. And indeed I was right. He was Afghani. It was then that we switched languages and spoke in Farsi. I was afraid of misunderstanding him since Afghans speak slightly faster and with a heavier accent. But I kept up. He spoke of Afghanistan as if it were no longer his; perhaps because it really wasn’t, for he had not seen it in more than 20 years.
“I ran away right when the Russians invaded. I haven’t seen it since. It is not possible to go back,” he said sadly.
I felt sorry for the both of us. Sorry for our bitter goodbyes, for what we left behind, for what we couldn’t hold onto.
“The mullahs, what they have done to our countries!” he said and I nodded yes.
He told me that he was an educated man with a degree in Farsi literature in Afghanistan. In America, he said, he became a taxi driver, feeding his family, his wife and two kids. This is what I’ve become here, he said.
I was sad to have ended our sweet conversation in my mother tongue, but I found myself, once again back home. I parted from the friendly hamvatan, who reminded me of Khaled Hosseini’s Kite Runner, and went inside, disappointed by the familiar smell of unfamiliarity.