یاد ایام...

دو روز پشت سر هم یه جفت جوراب پوشیدم، بعد آمدم کفشامو عوض کنم بوی سگ مرده می‌داد. بعد یاد ایران و خوابگاه و ... افتادم، کلی خاطره زنده شد. بعد یاد بوی مسجدا هم افتادم که ترکیبی‌ست یگانه از بوی پا و گلاب.

Tehran, an urban tragedy.

In a world of chaos and economic austerity, the idea of believing in someone that finally comes out of the blue and helps “us” is very compelling. In the presence of this huge gap between classes, an underdog will use his knife to make some money.

 In a country that the police run over innocent citizens, the people, of course, would not stop a public fight or robbery, and would just apathetically pass by.

In a city that freedom, cultural events, newspapers, books, cinema, theater, internet, are suppressed by the government, the greatest entertainment remaining would be to watch the hanging of some unfortunate twenty-something-year-old thief..

In a neighborhood that stops functioning because of some religious reason, it makes sense to accuse those who pick-pocket to committing a crime against “God.”

It all makes sense. Don't act like there is something extraordinary happening. The truth is that there is no ultimate rescuer; we are all in this compost heap, decaying together*. What we need are rebels. We need cultural, economical, educational rebels, and we have none. What we are, are a bunch of apathetic tormentors. Oh, and don’t get me confused; I’m one of them.

Footnotes:

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* [From fight club:] “You are not special. You're not a beautiful and unique snowflake. You're the same decaying organic matter as everything else. We're all part of the same compost heap. We're all singing, all dancing crap of the world.” 

 ** The "every-day" news.