Exhaustion of Continuity

You know I decided a while ago that I hate complaining. But, we all have our moments when we are down and not too inspired by life. Well, maybe now is one of those times for me. It happens rarely that my father and I get into arguments, as there is almost no use in fighting when we are not even enjoying the right of being physically in the same geographical region. So, even when we disagree on things (when we talk on the phone), we simply pretend as though disagreements do not exist and move on to a different subject. But, lately I feel tired. I am tired of having lengthy conversations on the phone with a father who is far away from me, with a father whom is left alone in Iran and who hopelessly awaits the moment when he could see us. I blame myself for having grown up in his absence and having grown out of the innocence with which I lived a great childhood and teenage years with my family in Iran. I blame myself for sounding like a “stranger” to him.

I feel my family and I had one thing that no one was able to steal from us in the past and that was “hope”. They took away our unity and our comfortable life, but they never managed to take “hope” away from us. It was that feeling of “hope” that would give us the concrete sense of pride. It was because of “hope” that we all progressed in our individual lives. It was “hope” that whispered every night in our ears that there will be a day that the four of us will have a happy meal in Tehran. Sadly, the strange concept of time is taking that “hope” away from us. I fear the day that “hope” steps outside and never comes back again. I see “hope” wearing his shoes and getting ready to leave. I fear his departure. It was “hope” that had made us feel the sense of “togetherness” during all these years of separation and anxiety.

The Star
Well, I never went back, I no longer suffer
from not going back, the sand willed it
and as part wave and part channel
syllable of salt, leech of water,
I, sovereign, slave of the coast
surrendered, chained to my rock.
There is no freedom anymore for us
who are fragments of the mystery,
there is no way out for returning
to oneself, to the stone of oneself
No other stars remain except the sea.

By: Pablo Neruda,
Translated by: William O’Daly
From: Winter Garden- Copper Canyon Press