Tehran,
No. 11, 4th Street, Vozara Ave.
30 August 2024 - 11 September 2024
The onset of mental instability, struggling in the midst of nothing.
These were the first words that shaped the overarching narrative of my stories.
In the midst of nothing
It is the tale of the unfinished rainbow bridge of consciousness.
The recurring story where each time I returned to life, I grasped at it, and the rainbow called me, manifesting as a snail or an ant living on the rainbow; and each time an old cobbler plunged me into a trance, abandoning me in the heart of nothing. I desired only to complete the creation of the rainbow bridge. Suddenly, these words began to fall apart. Diluting thoughts merged with colors that could never take on a tangible form.
For a long time, I have been in the midst of nothing, desperate in the mournful shell of a silent snail, grab on to the green law in unsparing nowhere abyss.
All at once, I mingled with the colors. It wasn’t long before I could weave, in an unknown dimension, novel forms from these writings.
Now, several scarecrows stomp over each grave, seeking decay and putrefaction. Indeed, it is I who, over each tombstone, yearn for the loneliness. It is I, the possessor of the honor of solitude, who asks each and every passerby for the location of the crewless field...
Perhaps this dark poeticism is evident in the intertwined textures of these frames.
These were the first words that shaped the overarching narrative of my stories.
In the midst of nothing
It is the tale of the unfinished rainbow bridge of consciousness.
The recurring story where each time I returned to life, I grasped at it, and the rainbow called me, manifesting as a snail or an ant living on the rainbow; and each time an old cobbler plunged me into a trance, abandoning me in the heart of nothing. I desired only to complete the creation of the rainbow bridge. Suddenly, these words began to fall apart. Diluting thoughts merged with colors that could never take on a tangible form.
For a long time, I have been in the midst of nothing, desperate in the mournful shell of a silent snail, grab on to the green law in unsparing nowhere abyss.
All at once, I mingled with the colors. It wasn’t long before I could weave, in an unknown dimension, novel forms from these writings.
Now, several scarecrows stomp over each grave, seeking decay and putrefaction. Indeed, it is I who, over each tombstone, yearn for the loneliness. It is I, the possessor of the honor of solitude, who asks each and every passerby for the location of the crewless field...
Perhaps this dark poeticism is evident in the intertwined textures of these frames.
