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.