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.