My father reads the newspaper in his striped pajamas and grey slippers. I like his pajamas because stripes are not boring. Earlier today he bought our favorite blackberry jam. I eat the jam on a piece of toast with butter, a glass of Nescafe to my right. I voraciously devour my food, savoring the sweetness of the blackberries and the warmness of the toast. Outside, the sun still glows and the autumn wind blows. Life is still in motion, and there is still time to make things happen.
My father continues to read. His eyes get tired and sleep takes over him. I don’t tell him to wake up because in a few minutes he will get back to reading. I watch him and I wonder if he too is content with life.
I finish eating and leave the window open. I wonder what’s behind the trees and the mountains and the houses and the buildings. I wonder where the roads end, if they ever do.
Daddy opens his eyes and reads again. We drink tea together and I smile because the sight of my father makes me happy. I wish to tell him what makes me content. I wish to tell him about Smoothie Thursdays; my friends and I have smoothies every Thursday afternoon to reward ourselves for the hard work we do in the week. I wish to tell him about our daily routines, our trips to the gym and how little time we have to get things done.
Tomorrow. I can tell him about it all tomorrow when he sits on the couch in his favorite striped pajamas.

I look around me and I try to define happiness. I cannot deny that when the sun comes out, life looks perfect, flawless. In this case, perfection and flawlessness bring happiness. So I continue looking. The autumn colors are still there and they too have the potential to bring happiness for one who is truly looking for it. As I look around me at the campus students who wander from corner to corner, smoke their cigarettes, drink their coffees like starving addicts, I cannot help but wonder if this too is happiness. If this is what we all look for: our coffees, our obsessions, our addictions, our personal achievements. How long can we carry on before we become tired of the ordinary, before we become bored?
Then I think of the rest of the population, the ones who faithfully practice their religions and pray for a God they idolize and worship. Perhaps it is easier to find purpose, which can also be defined as happiness, when something higher exists, like religion and faith, something that gives purpose to this otherwise pointless life.
But then again, one does not necessarily have to have a higher purpose. One can live in a society where representative democracy is practiced, but not everyone is equal, where one can become a coffee addict, living off of Starbucks or become a smoker, an alcoholic. One can live, sleep, work, dream, write, all of which can contribute to a certain degree of happiness. And if one is an insomniac, then he can enjoy sleepless nights knowing that the next day, there may be rain or snow, both of which can make him satisfied. If he hates the rain, he can wait for a sunny day and vies versa. Of course there can be no one definition of happiness. And even if there was one such equation, it would not always be solvable. Then we go back to where we started, asking the same questions and debating on faith and so on.
I like to think that life is a cycle in which happiness is achievable. At least, under this American flag, happiness exists because there is no one definition; there exists no such thing as one true answer. There are limitless ways one can gain happiness. It is just a matter of wanting it.

The Alborz Mountains of Tehran were once visible from the living room window. Then a couple of years later the neighborbood began constructing buildings until eventually we had no view. In the films that my brother recorded, the mountains were almost always present, accentuated with their snow caps. They were the most beautiful sight, tall, majestic, almost surreally. The films were often accompanied by symphonies like those of Yanni, the Greek pianist whom my brother idolized. I remember his performances, how the public loved him, adored him, glorified him. We watched Yanni and envied his power with the piano. He played passionately, with all his heart and soul, his long hair flowing from side to side.
The other day I was talking to D and he asked if I knew who Yanni was. I said of course I know who he is. And that’s why I felt like I should revisit those days, just to remind myself that once, not too long ago, there was Yanni, the undeniably beautiful mountains and the glory that was Tehran.

We sat in the smoking area because we were too hungry to wait for an empty table in the non-smoking one. Nura turned 18 and the waiters sang for her. I love watching her laugh; her laughter is the kind that makes you smile inside, the kind that makes you laugh out loud with her. My hair smells of cigarettes now but I like it because it reminds me that I had a great time. I wish I could turn 18 again. I will miss it…
Nura is my guiding light. She glows and her green eyes are hypnotizing. I love her, I love being with her, sharing my problems, my joys and secrets with her. She reads me too well.
I want you to celebrate who you are today. I want you to have the world because it is yours. I want you to live your dreams and I know you will.
I am here. Always. I will listen and I will write. Thank you for inspiring me, for believing in me, for pushing me to go higher.
Love,
Forever and for always,
E

What I remember about the autumns of Tehran is the sound of yellow leaves as I crushed them with the sole of my shoes. Autumn is the memory of the kooches that I walked through on the early hours of dawn when everyone was sound asleep, the memory of fallen leaves much like those that fall here. Autumn was never my favorite season. It was the spring of Tehran that I was in love with, its blossoms and pretty flowers, its euphoric smell and refreshing aura.
My memories of Tehran fade away, bit by bit, piece by piece as the leaves continue to descend. Soon winter will bring its snow storms and everything will become white, too pure, too beautiful. And by then, I am afraid that what little I remember of Tehran and its seasons will be gone. In the deceivingly beautiful storm that has formed inside my head, the small fragments of Tehran that I have desperately tried to keep will be wiped away. I will have no recollection of what was then.
In the aftermath of this storm, only a diluted illusion, a dilapidated image of some sort will remain.
Color is what makes life livable, lovable, invaluable. It is the color of freedom that makes the autumn so beautiful, so tangible. But in a country of grayness, of black and white, of illegal dreams and abandoned hopes, color is meaningless. And seasons are only decors, shields, temporarily barricading the polluted streets.

Nura tells me she likes the colors of October, yellow and orange, red and auburn. During this month, the Virginia leaves descend graciously and the fall winds slowly begin to strengthen. “There is something about this month that I love. I love the colors and Halloween.” I watch the trees and the fallen leaves as Nura talks in that melodic tone of hers. It’s a gorgeous Friday afternoon and this Palestinian beauty is a week away from turning 18. Her stunning green eyes are full of passion and hope, glowing in the autumn sun. We are both ecstatic; a feeling of deep euphoria overwhelms us. We wish to close our eyes and sleep under the trees that cast a shadow over us. We wish to stay young, stay as children who want nothing but the world. In this beautiful day, Nura and I breathe in the fresh air, mischievously smiling because today, the world is ours.

He drinks his morning coffee in his hot classroom as I head out the door into a cold, chilly October air. He makes a toast to the little time that we both have. I wonder what inspires him to teach those kids, half of whom don’t know the difference between “their” and “there”, half of whom seldom write for the pure joy of writing. I wonder what motivates him to have them tell their stories on paper. I wonder if the classroom ever becomes a mundane, redundant image.
I am almost 19 years old, still living in the same room that I moved into six years ago. I am still daddy’s little girl, still spoiled by too much love, still stubborn, still a child. I wake up hoping the sun is out and sleep in hopes of better dreams. I like to be great one day. I like to be a great writer. I want New York to love me, to hold me, to empower me, to indulge me. I want it all. When I get bored, I write little notes, little texts, little sentences and I forget that I overdue them. I live by writing and I get carried away and I start dreaming and fantasizing and I forget about logic and sense and
He thinks I do more with my time. But he has no idea that the things I do no longer satisfy my needs, that drinking a latte by myself on a Friday night is no longer enough. That selling clothes once a week to total strangers is no longer interesting.
Nevertheless as I’ve said many times before, I love life. I love my imperfect utopia. And I would like to make a toast:
To life, here, anywhere that makes us smile.
Thanks for the inspiration…

I forgot to write about the cherry glass that had a little bit of Champaign left at the bottom. I was sitting by the Potomac River, contemplating, day dreaming when I noticed the glass on my right. I wondered why someone would just leave it there. Then I wondered about having a glass of my own…
The cherry glass made the scene romantic. And I knew then that it would be worth writing about. But now that I have described the glass and the setting of the scene, I do not know how to tell you the rest of the story. I do not know because there is no story. I could make up a story where a beautiful, lonely girl encounters a beautiful man with a French accent and he offers her his glass and she takes a sip and he takes her hand and…
In reality, where imagination is strictly banned, there was no French man. There was no beautiful girl.
There was a cherry glass with a bit of Champaign left at the bottom. The night was cool and there was a lonely middle-aged man sitting to my right. I was moving to the rhythm of my music and the night was mine.
You can’t get more real than that…

I killed a spider two nights ago. It wasn’t too big but it bothered me so I took one of my shoes and smacked the spider with it. There is a nasty stain on the wall, reminding me that I murdered a poor, innocent insect that did nothing to harm me. He was simply a trespasser, an intruder.
I hate bugs, insects, anything that moves. But I like ants, tiny ants that carry food to their homes. Once when I was little, perhaps six or seven I killed a bunch of ants. They were big and they scared me. I never forget that incident. We were at a rented villa in shomal, the north of Tehran, by the Caspian Sea. I was playing on a big balcony where I found lots of big ants moving about. I don’t know what motivated me to kill them. But I did. And the memory haunts me to this day.
Killers go on trial. They stand before a judge and are sentenced either to prison or to death. We are all killers. Nobody is innocent. In this ugly, brutal world of chaos where democracy is too flawed, we all commit sins. Some of us pray for forgiveness. The rest of us die as sinners.
I did not have the right to kill the spider. But because I am selfish I killed him, without hesitation. And I am not going to ask for forgiveness.

She bought white roses for him on the second of October, his birthday. We forgot to sing, but we kissed him and he wore the biggest smile.
My father is the most beautiful man with the brightest smile. He is the shyest ouf of all of us but tells the funniest stories. He is brave and has a big heart. He is proud to be our father and we are proud to be his girls. Sometimes I look into his eyes and I fear. I fear of losing him and I want to hold him because I am scared to let go. I am not like my father. I am still a child and I don’t know when I will grow up.
The white roses were carefully placed in a vase. I look at them every morning and I remember that nothing will be as pure as my father’s love.