Ardalan

"Everything I write here is a piece of a story. A fragment of an endless puzzle, to create a larger picture, the shape and size of which I don't even know myself yet.

There are days when the goddess of sorrow, in a thousand hidden and visible forms, speaks to me. In the sunlight of the day and its trembling shadows, I see an indistinct face staring at me, talking to me in my voice. youtu.be/AlftMNmDH00?si…

My words lead me to your home. To your heart. I look at my face, which resembles a tangled mass of words—an image in the mirror. A word, like an old and rusted knife, is stuck in my head. I love it and all the grandeur carved into my face. 📷Chris Friel

Most of the time, doing nothing is the best choice possible. I stare motionless and silently at the empty screen. The words I don't write are the most valuable, and your name among them is a dormant volcano that hides a precious diamond within.

Thinking of you is enough for me. On ancient Friday mornings, when I am lost in the air of eternity, the thought that your small heart is beating somewhere in this world calms me. 📷Sara Robinson

She was like a rainbow on a beautiful spring day afternoon. Perhaps I would only watch her for a few moments before she would get up from the bus seat and disappear. I wanted to talk to her, but it seemed so pointless. It was like throwing a stone into a calm pond. 📷Chris Friel

I wanted to be somewhere else. Beneath a different sky, where its breeze is a continuous flow of freedom, and white clouds of peace flutter proudly in the sky. In this world, I wished to be a dove on your rooftops, singing awakening songs for you every morning. ...

A small dove cooed on a sycamore branch. The day was lost in the clamor of children. In the distance, the dreadful sound of war drums. Night was approaching.

A cat sits in the garden, on a bed of flowers. The prince of nameless streets sees me with his innocent eyes. I want to hold him in my arms, to weep, as Nietzsche did. 📷Sara Robinson

I had fallen to the ground, like a child who had fallen asleep, on his mother’s shoulder. Your fingers caressed my body like a tiny ant, Your voice was an enchanting whisper that summoned a cloud of butterflies toward us, In dreams and wakefulness. 📷Sara Robinson

If it all is just a moment that continues into infinity. If it requires an observer at the event horizon. I have lived that moment beside you, and you have hung on my arm until infinity. 📷Chris Friel

I am unmatched in forgetfulness. A true master. I won't tell anyone my secret because they won’t understand. It’s a moment, a small dot, or a familiar sound. After that, I am no longer there. I forget everything. It feels like a kind of temporary resignation. 📷Chris Friel

My name is Cloud in Hand. When I was born, there was a cloud in my fist. A small cloud that went into the sky when I opened my fingers, right in front of everyone. Later, I had it tattooed on my palm. Just imagine! Cloud in hand. 📷Chris Friel

My shadow is forgetfulness. It walks alongside me in the street. Something like me in another land. It gnaws, devours, and grows taller every day. 📷Chris Friel

Empty thoughts in my head. Like a flowing stream. Your memory as a gold fish.

I will come one day, With a legion of bees. We’ll capture the meadow, As gentle as the whispering breeze. 📷Sara Robinson

She wore a cloud, soft and white. I waved to her. The sky smiled. 📷Sara Robinson

A seed of imagination in your mind, Left behind from my poem. Tomorrow, it will bloom, Bringing a smile to your lips. 📷Sara Robinson

Is a rare flower, your heart. In the lightness of days, it turns dark. In the heaviness of nights, it shines. 📷Sara Robinson

There is something in the air. A wandering cloud. The guest of my wounded heart, in the spring morning. 📷Chris Friel

Too much poetry. Too much coffee. Too many cigarettes. Too much hunger. Too much loneliness. Sudden death.