farshad (farshad-mahmoodi)

I want to plant these walnuts in the ground. To be honest, I’ve done it once before, and it worked, now I have a small walnut tree. The chances of success may be low, but hope is still alive in my heart, the same hope that makes every little seed want to grow. I wish humans were like seeds, every time they fall, they would take root instead of losing hope. Within every dark soil lies a hidden light that only the eyes of patience and faith can see. Maybe these walnuts will never sprout, but the very act of planting them is a way of believing in the repetition of life’s miracle.

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The clock lies; time does not revolve in a circle, it runs along a straight line and never, ever returns. The idea of making a clock in the shape of a circle was a deceitful, trickster’s magic. The true clock is the hourglass; each moment shows you that a grain that has fallen will never come back. Time gone is gone, neither regret nor insistence can alter it. This endless line remains unaffected. And perhaps the very deceptions that bring us joy are sometimes more valuable than a hundred truths.

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This house is not red; it is a condition, the embodiment of the moment when absence overtakes presence and the continuity of erasure becomes the norm. The color neither warns nor creates meaning; it is merely the result of accumulation, the consequence of prolonged disappearance. The house has no function except to record, to record the widening distance between “being” and “being counted.” What was once called human has here been reduced to a unit. I am standing, not out of survival and not as a neutral witness; I am standing with a burden on my shoulders, the burden of being in the face of those who left so that something beyond mere survival could be possible. My being is not a choice; it is a responsibility, the responsibility of carrying names that no longer have a voice, but still have weight. Loneliness here is not a personal experience; it is a logical outcome when freedom carries a cost that only a few are made to pay. This redness does not shout violence; it is quieter than that. It only shows that normalization is the final and most complete form of catastrophe.

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Legends say that once, the Sun proposed to the Moon. If the Moon had said “yes,” the Sun would have exploded with happiness. And if the Moon had said “no,” the Sun would have gone dark from deep sorrow and grief. So the Moon replied, “I don’t know.” Since then, Saturn has become the guardian of their rings, and at every solar eclipse they see each other. The Sun asks the Moon, “Have you thought it over?” Good night, friends. 🌙☀️

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