Inside the rather dingy metro station, men in suits lighten up the atmosphere. They are headed to Georgetown for work and I only get to see them come and go. You see, I go to the opposite direction to catch my 9 am class. If I were a careless woman and didn’t mind missing class, I would ride with them and see where they’re headed to. I am not careless however; in fact I am very punctual and quite paranoid when it comes to making it on time. Let me just jump to what I really want to write about. I want to write about the little memories Nura, Swati and I are making on our little tours on buses and metros. We encounter old, creepy (please don’t be offended if you think you are old) men who stare at us, scrutinizing our every move because we are teenagers and rebels? We also run into hotties, or attractive boys if you want to be traditional, and wonder if they are single. We make random, yet surprisingly sophisticated and intellectual conversations and move on with our day. You could say we are the average teen, talking about guys, Hollywood, books, people, fantasies, obsessions and so forth. But what we see is shared only by us. No one, not even the old man who thinks he can read our minds knows what we think, what we plan to do with our lives.
Inside a rather empty metro, I look a the black watch on my wrist, the one my older brother bought from New York. Time is important these days. So is every little second that passes, every second that we see those men in suits, every second that we see a life we all want to live. I see the metro and I think Paris, Belgium, a tour de France. I think cities and packed subways and…maybe men in black suits!
The point is, life is too short my friends. So the next time you get on a metro, watch carefully. Things happen too fast…

I order a coffee and momentarily stare at the girl’s tattoo that’s carefully inscribed on her neck as she punches buttons and takes my order. The tattoo is a Chinese inscription. I’m thinking of saying something about it but I don’t. I take my coffee and add sugar. I take a sip; it’s too bitter. I continue adding sugar, but it’s pointless. I pour the milk and continue stirring in the hopes of being rewarded with a sweet taste. I give up. An empty couch is to my right, I almost sink in, take out a book, my iPod and read, unwillingly, yet dutifully. The woman next to me is taking notes on the book she is reading. She doesn’t distract me; in fact, no one does.
Outside the Starbucks there are plenty of empty chairs. I sit to enjoy a cool breeze. But I am somewhere else, somewhere past the empty parking lot in front of me, somewhere past the lonely streets. Tonight is Friday and I am restless. I am depressed but I can’t even rationalize my feelings of despair. I have an urge to jump into a big pool and drown, sink, be weightless. Would that be too crazy, too insane? Am I angry at the world? No. Am I angry at myself? No.
I hug my pillow. Mother walks in and sees me sobbing by the window. She is hurt and I hate myself for hurting her. It’s nothing, I say. How can I explain what is inexplicable to me? You are tired, is that why? No mom. It’s not that. Talk to me. I don’t know what to say maman.
I don’t know what to say.
But I do know that I’m never going to order another coffee. I will stick to my vanilla latte. And if I ever get a tattoo, it won’t be on my neck.

The ride back home was long. I didn’t say a word. I stared out the window, watching the trees like I was 12 again, curious to see nature’s wonders. We drove in silence, a heavy, unbearable silence. The roads were clear, the sky a pale blue, limitless, inviting. I wish I could ask her to take me away. I wish I could ask her to drive to Manhattan and leave me there. So what if I’d be alone, so what if I’d have to find my own way into the city. I wish I could…
Maybe it’s my pillow or my old, rusty bed that squeaks with my every turn. Or maybe I just have insomnia. I haven’t been able to sleep the past few nights. I turn and wake up in between meaningless dreams. My body is soar but I don’t fall asleep. Perhaps I’m still thinking. Thinking about him, you, me…
In my dreams I don’t see trees or the pale blue sky. My dreams are insignificant; I can’t even recall them. I wish my mind would shut off so I could just…sleep.
I am going to bed, hopefully to sleep, hopefully to dream. Please don’t disrupt me. Please don’t follow me. Please don’t make me think. Let me be a dreamer. I will be a writer when I wake up. I am watching the sparking moon and I’m wishing upon a star. If only I were 12 again.

The balcony has become a refuge for me and my lonely mind. Every night, before I go to bed, late into the night, I sit there on a white chair. My iPod is in my lap, my cell phone by my side, with a cup of Nescafe or tea, interrupted by no one, disrupted by nothing. I think as I breathe in the fresh September air. I daydream by the moonlight. I watch planes that ascend into the pitch black sky. I forget all; I am forgotten. In my head, I continue to write and sometimes I do not remember a single sentence. I become nothing. I become the night’s shadow and feel the lightness of my being. I submit myself willingly to the night and endure the unbearable lightness of being.

Mom smells the Caspian Sea when I open the window. Hurricane season has arrived and we are drenched by heavy rains and storms. Inside our cozy apartment that has no particular smell, we are trapped. But it’s a good entrapment, one that I want to cling and hold on to. Perhaps for security or to stay dry.
I have long forgotten the smell of the Caspian Sea. I have forgotten the feel of its sand, its soil, its shells and rocks. I long to touch the sea shells, the imperfect cream colored rocks that sparkled in the sun, the sand that cloaked my feet, keeping them warm and dry. Why is it that I long for things that now seem so unreachable? Why am I haunted by childhood memories that make me want to be a child again?
I was too absorbed by the American dream. And what I ultimately lost as a result was my childhood dream, the dream that I have no recollection of now. What was that dream?
Storms come and go, take things away, disrupt peace for a little while. Then we have order again. We go back to the norm. The sea does the same. After the calamity and the heavy waves, it calms itself. Once tranquility and peace arrives, we can sit by the shore, watch the waves, count the shells, wet our feet…perchance to dream.
Since writing is my American dream, I will take my pen and I will write about me and the Caspian Sea. I was a child then and the sea was mine. Now that I’m too far away, on another ship, living to the sound of rivers and lakes, the Caspian Sea has become my dream. I will find it again. One day soon, I will find my way back to its sand stones…I will build a sand castle right by the shore. I will watch the waves as they wash my castle away, as they destroy my only masterpiece. Only this time it won’t be fiction.

I feel tired tonight. I actually feel soar and my body aches from all the walking and working out in the gym. I’m not in the mood to write. I just want to go to bed. It was a beautiful day; I think I’m going to love the fall. The leaves fall, a new season begins; it’s a fresh start to get rid of the summer. In sociology we talked about how human beings can never really be alone because we always have internal thoughts about other people. Even in dreams they’re with us. But I still think I’m alone…and I don’t like it too much. Sometimes I just want to belong to someone. I want someone to have power over me; I’m tired of making my own decisions.

Welcome to my new life at George Mason University. To put it bluntly, I love college. I love that no one yells at you for being late. I love the fact that no one tells you what to do or what not do, and that you have total control over everything, well, almost everything. On the first day of classes Nura and her older sister picked me up around 8:15 am and I made it on time to my 9 am lecture on Environmental Science. The professor is awesome. She wears her hair in a long ponytail with short bangs, and wears skirts with flowers. She is sweet and doesn’t play rough. I have no worries about this lady. The class however, was rather shocking. Over 200 people! That was new to me!
There is a lot of walking at Mason. And I mean a lot. I have burned more calories in the last three days than I did in three Gym sessions. The college kids are too many to count. They smoke their cigarettes passionately like kids who chew on candy and like to listen to their iPods. During my long walks to classes I get to breath in the fresh, yet humid air of what summer has left behind. At least I don’t have to walk in the cold hallways of high school, although sometimes I miss them…
Enough of that. I carry lots of textbooks, but I have learned that I can leave them at home! There is no way that anyone would mistake us for upperclassmen from the heavy bags on our backs and the books we carry.
On my second day I was depressed because I was charged with 589 dollars worth of books on my checking card. I still can’t get over it! For once I actually understand the value of money.
My Sociology teacher is a guy who speaks pretty fast. He asked us where we thought he is from. I guessed in my head that he might be from New York. I was right; he was from Brooklyn. He is an interesting guy and obviously loves his job. I always appreciate a little humor here and there. Most of his examples were about Canadians. I forget why that was.
I love my Government, Democracy to be exact, teacher. He is 37 (yes, a girl actually asked his age, quite nonchalantly I might add). He is Asian but was born and raised in San Francisco. He is bold. If that makes any difference. He is funny, sarcastic and his favorite movie is the Matrix; I never understood that movie. He said “Fuck it” at one point in class. I love this guy.
Let’s see. I make my own lunches because I refuse to pay from my credit card. I can’t even look at my card anymore because I’m afraid all my money will vanish into thin air. But of course my mother cooks! If Nura doesn’t have a break at the same time I do, I eat by myself. I have made friends though, really I have. In each class I’ve made at least one friend. My mother should be proud. I barely see Swati. But we do meet after classes end.
I am the most talkative person in the car. So as we drive through the lights and traffic and accidents of rush hour, my companions don’t have to worry about getting bored. But don’t get too excited. I don’t say a word in any of my classes.
I sleep late. Wake up not too early and constantly harass my former HS English teacher with emails before my ride arrives. I think he should add me to his spam mail. Or not! I am enjoying these days and think that it’s going to be an exciting life. “It” being college life.
I forgot to mention the boys. The boys…there are too many of them. Lots of hot guys. Lots of cute, preppy, white boys in pink t-shirts…yep, college is great!
One last note: I am so proud of us. We’ve been going to the campus gym everyday since Monday.
There is one thing that makes me miss high school. And that is the fact that professors don’t really care about you. They may see your face in between all the others but then you’re gone and they go on with their day. Like I’ve said before, who am I going to bug now? Who is going to read my blog?
I hope you all still do. I really do.
Thanks for reading. Tomorrow I have a three hour lab! No comment on that.

I add a tea spoon of sugar to my coffee. Did I ever mention that I don’t drink coffee? Today it was my second day. Yesterday I had coffee and I liked it because it wasn’t bitter; I had added plenty of milk and sugar. I was looking for a new taste. Tea was getting a bit trite.
Mom was sewing earlier today. Back in Tehran, that’s all she did. She did embroidery passionately. The task was effortless; she had become an expert. Now she is reading Nafisi’s book in between her college book on parent education.
My credit card bill is on the table. I’ve spent most of my money on Starbucks; I should cut back on Lattés.
Classes start tomorrow. But let’s not talk about that now when I can tell you about the gorgeous sun that’s out and the warm wind that traces its path. It’s a lazy day. I have no chores, no tasks, no plans. I am just enjoying the unbearable lightness of being…
Last night, before I headed to bed, I stood on a chair on my balcony and felt tall. I was chewing a delicious stick of chocolate ice-cream. I wasn’t wearing much and I was bare foot. I was a bit nervous, standing so tall, so close to the edge; I was scared that the wind would take me away…
How would you sum up the five irrelevant, short paragraphs above? How would you conclude your point? Did I even make a point? No…I just felt like talking about coffee and since I had no where to go with that, I figured I might as well tell you about the rest of the day. So there, I’ll end it now.

Today I slept walked through the city. I strolled down M street and Wisconsin Avenue, passed a dozen shops, tried on 300 dollar dresses that I knew I couldn’t afford, drank bubble tea and a smoothie, and sat by the Potomac River, watching the sun set. I say slept walked because when you’re alone and you have the power to do absolutely anything, you feel like you’re dreaming but you know you are awake. There’s so little time in the day that I feel like I have total control over what happens. In reality, at home, at school, at work, things are arranged to a certain degree. Plans are made, appointments are arranged; there is some sort of order to everything. But when I found myself alone and unaccompanied in a little city where people move about within every second and life happens so quickly, I was free. I was a free bird, breaking rules as I wished, crossing any street I chose to cross, picking any road I wanted, timing myself as I wished. The world was mine and that’s when I felt like I had it all. I’m trying to avoid clichés, exaggerations and corny phrases, but that’s how I literally felt. Like I could do anything, be the woman I am, be gorgeous and single and feel the breeze and the wind going through my hair. Six years passed and I never once did what I did today. I never had the courage to ride the bus alone, put my own money in, and not feel awkward. I am glad that today I finally found the courage to do what I always wanted to do, to walk alone and spend a day with myself. I gave my heart to the city and believe it or not I can give it to New York some day. Life is good. All you have to do is ride a bus full of strangers and be a traveler.
I could have written this like a story. I could have added a little color to the dresses. I could have picked names for the streets I crossed and the stores I window shopped from. I could have made you feel like you’re walking in my shoes, feeling the wind, hearing the cars passing and the music I listened to. I could have written this a thousand different ways and it probably could have been better. But, I didn’t. I chose to write it without the details. I wrote it for me and for once I want you, the reader, to just experiment this on your own. Besides, one style of writing would be boring, wouldn’t it?

“I blog…therefore… I exist,” says an Iranian blogger.
And I, here in America where no thought police exist and I’m bound by nothing, where I can say and do as I please, feel the same. I am addicted to my blog, the diary that I candidly share with the world. Without my words I don’t exist. In Iran, people are punished and harassed because of their smiles, their thoughts, their words, their appearances; everything they do is censored. So they blog. That’s how they think, that’s how they become alive. In the blogosphere they learn to unveil, reveal, expose their deepest desires, thoughts, feelings. Why shouldn’t they? Why shouldn’t they be free to bare it all, like we do here in this world? For so long they have dealt with bars, walls and chains, and now in this beautiful world of blogs, they can speak from the heart, from the soul, about anything, about anyone. They… exist.
When we are forced to obey our enforcers and live in humility, when everything becomes politics, we sometimes abandon our personal, private lives. In writing we find that sense of existence, that sense of being, that sense of living for who we really are. Therefore we exist and become dreamers in a world where dreams are illegal.