I went to bed last night, bitterly sad by the strange notion of unimportance. It was as if I realized loneliness in a more realistic sense. I felt helpless, going to bed, the lights out, shut off from the chilly winds. I remembered an earlier attempt at poetry, which, as was pointed out to me, was only “vague notions of poetry”. I also remembered that ever since we’ve begun the dreadful assignments of poetry exercises, I’ve lost that very little sense of structure I had. I am not a poet. I don’t even know what I am anymore. Why am I living to write? Or am I really writing to live?
I want to curse the world, but then again, I change my mind and go back to bed. And I wake up to another bitterly cold morning. I make my breakfast and go about my day, sit in my writing class, suddenly wondering if I really belong. This voice keeps saying, “who do you think you are?” And there is that bitter laughter in the end. Who the hell do you think you are? What? You are Iranian; oh you came at a young age to live your American Dream! Right! Bull. What is this crap? Who the hell do you think you are when nobody cares.
They don’t do they? I mean, you are reading this, for some reason. But does it really matter that I just declared my dissatisfactory attempts, or that I like to talk about myself?
Tell me. Why are you reading?!