Train to Crewe

An incident,

Here I stand, avenging the blows of catastrophe.

Generation after generation perished within this prison,  Repeating, believing it was déjà vu.

I, a black night howl, a rebellious spirit from the abyss of death,  Sprouted from the blood of choice.

With the touch of love in a forbidden zone,  And the experience of the deepest political kiss,  I freed myself from the shackles of symbols and saw the gap between your force and your law.

I wanted to ally with the children against their fathers,  But they sided with their fathers and brought me down.

A deep valley, instantly emptied of magic,  Became a fleeting height.


From sin, poetry, and the anthem of lust,  To the holy trinity of love, madness, and nakedness,  Your pull took me into an empty memory,  The wine of the whip and the sparks of doubt, the sweet last supper,  A bitter free frame,  Where I wanted to expose the rulers to the audience,  But the audience exposed me to the rulers,  Like the naked body before the officers’ bullet.

Naked, my thoughts, a howl from a monster,  In pursuit of truth,  I am merely a criminal Christ behind Judas’ kiss,  But without a hymn, death,  Stared into my lifeless eyes.


I killed all my commitments except thinking,  I couldn’t be bought; they sold me.

A path without a destination, full of taboos,  I learned from iron cells and embraces,  The border gap crushes the refugee.

Tell me, where is the border of freedom?

I am a thorn in the gap of politics,  Metaphors bear witness to the murder of dance,  I am evident in the heart of the poetic feast,  An experience more scandalous than death’s close call,  Unafraid of warnings,  I am not the watchdog of a dead gaze,  So I didn’t dwell on the narrow path,  Warm and audacious, I broke traditions,  So that the preacher would bleed.


The feel of soil, the wound of the blade, the tragedy, the bottom of the bottom,  Dance to the rhythm of darkness,  Comedy of discrimination, spit on the law,  I am outside every systematic process.

We are the blood of the streets, the scene of crime,  The border of the tremor of truth, the lie of hyenas and lions,  Meaning going to the bottom without support.

Try not to tame me.


I fell among the blind.

Blessings fell from the sky,  They filled you bundle by bundle.

This was a contract between earth and sky,  To organize chaos.

God died, security broke,  Left a more fearful group and the thought of war flames.

The next day they gathered and drew their grudge from poverty, starting endless work,  The era of two-legged tractors, plowing security and sowing ownership,  Profit, production, export, bundle by bundle and the whip of tyranny that blinded the faint hope,  And God’s light,  Bound to bars and a science that didn’t prove this defeat.


Kiss me, I am a wild biped,  Free from decor,  The thought of terror.


A gap between culture and molten nature,  And every duality of choice and compulsion,  Which became the opposite of choice.  You, surrender time to poetry,  So our kiss would reclaim every place.


Sway with your laugh,  In the name of the deprived, in the name of the heartbroken,  In the name of the prostitutes, in the name of the weary,  In the name of the handless, in the name of heroin,  In the name of addiction and wound,  The voice of terrorism,  The image of dandelions in the Middle East,  The red of news,  In the name of the bound hands and the dryness of danger on the thin skin of the earth,  And blood, and blood that went towards the Qibla and there’s no event other than the sword,  In the name of the broken chains and the back pain after every leap,  That like my chest, your body is a purposeless story.


In your name, who are bound thirsty in colonialism, tyranny, and oppression,  A thousand crosses, a thousand poems without weapons,  And the rejected who don’t accept nothingness, In fact, they die every day,  Yet In the end, they will come back to life.



You put your feet on the cold stone,

Ignited a fire in the middle of the cold war.

You ran your hands through your hair with such grace,

Stomped your feet, shattering house windows.

With closed eyes, you danced wildly,

Upon shattered glass. You were a mockery to this nonsense war.

I embraced the season of wind, grasping your mane,

You danced fluidly in the breeze.

I followed your graceful dance.

We, dancers of the reality orchestra,

Became the dance itself, and you, the dancer.

You drowned in the black tent of night,

With the raging waves of darkness before me,

You gently landed on my shore.

With you, I saw death retreat,And how a drowning man breathes anew.

I understood life with you,Bearing its heavy burden with resilience.

We danced in this confined world that surrounded us, through spirits of the drowned dead.

The bricks watched us from the corners of their eyes,In the lifeless bones of impoverished houses.

When the wind of separation began to sing,

The final friction of our hands became a melody.

I was pulled into the storm from behind,

My fingers clenched, yours open wide.

From that day when we parted in the shadows,

We parted like two neighbors,

Two small buds on the tree of life,

Separated on the day the branch divided.

The air around my branch grew cold,

Far from yours, mine stood alone.

You reached the essence of existence until the last moment,

Then I realized that the tree of this caravan had become entwined with ivy.

Search for history

In the wounded hands and feet of our grief.

Search for history

In the sincere poems of our beliefs.

Search for history

In the shadows beneath the infection of oppression.

Search for the dancers

Whose dance is a bullet in the face of oppression.

Search for history

In the dreamlike scenes of the barefoot.

Search for history.

In the struggle between sun and the illusion of shadows.

Search for history

“I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us.”-Romans 8:18

The Blurry Sky

I’ll remember these days. I am searching, desperately searching for those people who truly matter to me. It feels like I am so far away from everything and everyone, yet I am running. I keep moving, steady as you go, they say, and I don’t mind. I’m still here today, after all, aren’t I?

I find myself spouting hymns, lost in the lyrics and meanings, trying to make sense of it all. Every word, every line, feels like an arrow in the knee, especially when life isn’t so kind. It’s strange how time warps when your mind turns to fiction. Hours stretch into days, days into years, and it feels like forever.

I choose the long way, always. Maybe it’s stubbornness or just the need to take in every detail, every experience, even if it burns. The heat is intense, but I don’t mind. I am so far away from what I know, from comfort, but it’s what I need.

Sometimes, it’s the nights that haunt me the most. Nights without sleep, where imagination runs wild, turning the dark spaces of my mind into vivid, unsettling visions. Vibration, that constant hum of anxiety, is my only companion.

Again and again, I find myself spouting hymns, repeating those familiar refrains, trying to hold onto something, anything. Life keeps aiming its arrows at me, and it isn’t always kind. But here I am, standing, feeling like time is stretching into an eternity.

And in these moments, when my mind turns to fiction, reality blurs. The lines between what is real and what is imagined become indistinguishable. It feels like forever when you’re lost in your thoughts, when your mind conjures up stories and nightmares that feel all too real. But here I am, still moving forward, still waiting, still searching.

“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.” -Psalm 23:4

Lady Bower

در این دوردستِ بی انتها زمان به کندی میگذرد. طعم تلخ امتحان و اجبار به گذران روزمره به حوصله بر ترین شکل ممکن . محلی ها به دنبال لقب مناسبی برای من هستند. ولی ما به ارزان ترین شکل ممکن سقوط کردیم . در کنار بانوی پیر ، صدای گیتار یاماهای قدیمی ام در گوشم زنگ می زند . زیر سایبان ابرهای تمام نشدنی لحظه ای به عمق نگاهش پناه می برم. گفت بنوش ، نه یک جرئه ، نه دو جرئه. سر بکش . صحبت عشق بود ، من می گفتم عشق مثل یک جام پر از زهر است

 از این مسابقه ی بی پایان اجباری که برنده ای ندارد خشمگینم . لحظه ای درنگ، حس بی چارگی . بانوی پیر جام مرا دوباره پر کرد . بنوش ! ولی من یک زنبور بی کفایتم . مثل یک سرخ پوست ، حس نوستالژی برای سرزمینم ر ا با خود حمل می کنم . سرزمین میانه ، خانه ی جدید من . انگار فرصتی برای باختن وجود ندارد . بنوش ! بدون حس اجبار بنوش

 حس درخت تنومندی را دارم که در دشتی بی پایان یکه و تنها قد علم کرده و وزش باد و طوفان و باران صورتش را نوازش می کنند. بخش هایی از تنه اش را کرم خورده و روی سطحش جای چند یادگاری قدیمی به جا مانده . قربانی برایم از حس لمس بدن متجاوز می گفت و روحم انگار این حال را می شناخت . مجلل ترین و زیباترین پاییز هم بوی مرگ می دهد . لذت به رنگ زرد و نارجی در می آید و سرانجام از شاخه می افتد . تصویر مبهمی از یک دختر بچه در ذهنم مرور می شود . این یک تلاطم با اصالت است

An update

As I wander through the sprawling streets of this unfamiliar landscape, the old buildings are adorned with the warm embrace of the lazy sun, painting a picture vastly different from the life I once knew in Iran. This bustling metropolis, rich with history and hardship, lays bare my thoughts as I navigate its intricate paths.

I traverse this labyrinth, anchored by the uncertainty of this new voyage. This vast expanse isn’t just a sanctuary but a canvas for my reinvention, calling me forth with both fear and promise, leading me to uncharted territories ripe with potential.

The allure of a fresh beginning beckons immigrants like me to venture westward in pursuit of a brighter tomorrow. Yet, amidst the daily grind, the initial promise of the UK fades, leaving behind indelible marks on my soul. Despite the challenges and occasional cold stares, the beauty of this new landscape forms in my memories.

As I sit by the window of my modest flat, observing the pulse of life below, I reflect on the day’s tribulations. This vibrant city has a way of revealing truths hidden beneath its surface, much like how its harsh realities strip away layers of my own vulnerabilities and dreams. Each interaction tells a story, each neighborhood a chapter in the ongoing saga of my immigration experience.

At nights, when clouds obscure the stars, a sense of displacement washes over me. Memories of Iran, with its golden reminisces, aren’t mere echoes of the past but living essences intertwined with my being, whispering ancient wisdom as I navigate challenges. Though the burdens of the day persist, they are overshadowed by my unwavering resolve and resilience.

This unknown city may serve as a crucible of struggle, but it also holds within it opportunities and hidden beauty—a testament that even in adversity, there’s space for renewal and hope. Resilience becomes my muse, guiding me through the maze of uncertainty, offering a refuge where I both lose and rediscover myself.


With the morning light streaming in, I rise from the sofa i call bed, carrying the weight of my past experiences. Stepping towards the window, the crisp morning air greets me like an old friend. Below, the city awakens, its bustling sounds forming a symphony of existence. The sun’s gentle rays soften the cityscape, offering a glimmer of reassurance. Taking a deep breath, I embrace this new reality, understanding that there’s no turning back, only forward, with acceptance and adaptation as my companions.

Waverly nights

Three inches above the floor, my body feels heavy, anchored by the weight of homesickness and fear. The man in the box, his face illuminated by the cold light of a screen, seems to want to burn my soul with his piercing gaze. He asks, “Is that all?” I’m silent, the words caught in my throat, choking me with their bitterness.

The pain is easy, he says, but he doesn’t understand the depth of the scars left by leaving behind everything familiar. The land I once called home, the faces I once knew, all fading into memories as I tread this unfamiliar path. Too many words fill my mind, echoing with the voices of those who’ve walked this path before me, their warnings and encouragements blending into a cacophony that I can barely distinguish.

The screams, if you’re hearing screams, he warns, but how can I not? The screams of those who’ve been left behind,and of those who’ve been torn from their families, their homes, their identities. They blend and echo in the silence of the night, haunting me, reminding me of the darkness that surrounds this journey.

“Come back, child, come back,” they seem to whisper, a plea to return to a past that no longer exists. My hands are dry, cracked from the cold and the harshness of this new world. But I know they’re going to make it, just one more night, just one more step towards a future that remains uncertain.

The man in the box continues to speak, his words a blur as my mind races with thoughts of what lies ahead. The terrors that’s associated with this journey, the shadows that lurk in every corner, waiting to engulf those who dare to seek a better life. It’s a vibe that’s both external and internal, a monster that threatens to consume me whole.

But I’m tired, so tired of the fear, of the unknown, of the weight of the world pressing down on my shoulders. The pain may be easy for some to dismiss, but for me, it’s a constant companion, a reminder of the sacrifices made and the challenges faced.

Too many words, too many words, I think as I try to make sense of it all. The stories, the warnings, the hopes and dreams that propel us forward even when the path seems impossible. They fill my mind, a jumble of emotions and thoughts that I can’t escape.

Morphine haze

It’s about what you feel, what you do, How you choose to present yourself when the situation requires you. It’s about what you’re looking for, what you search for. It’s not about fulfillment, but it’s about what is missing. How do you improve? How do you progress? Are you searching? It’s about the mind, How it grows progressively. What do you feed it? How do you cultivate the mind? It’s about the galaxies and the stars, But not so much about the moon as much as it is about you. It’s about choices as much as it’s about decisions, But it’s about having the bravery and the strength To make those things come to fruition. What is it you’re searching for? It’s about a pause, a break, An interruption in the transmission, A stop in the space-time continuum, A choice that you will always make. A moment in being when you realize That you are what you are searching for. So, I will ask: what is it you are searching for? It’s about infinite tomorrows, But is also about yesterdays and how the past repeats itself. So how will you choose to repeat yourself in their lives? It’s about now. It’s about then. What is it you are searching for? What is it you are searching for? Is it the now? Is it the no? Is it the yes? Is it that subsequent “I love you” that you need? What is it you are searching for? What is it you are searching for?

Cosmic Shenanigans

Hast thou ever felt the sands of time slipping away faster than a squirrel with a stolen nut, leaving thee adrift in the cosmic sea like a lost pirate without a map? ‘Tis like trying to wrangle a herd of cats on a moonlit night!

In those moments, ’tis easy to feel as bewildered as a chicken in a calculus class, surrounded by shadows and uncertainties, wondering if we’re on the right path or just following a GPS with a penchant for detours.

But fear not, for even in the midst of existential crises, there’s a glimmer of hope that shines through the darkness like a disco ball at a funeral – a gentle reminder that we’re all in this mess together, like a dysfunctional family road trip.

The nights may feel heavier than a sumo wrestler on a trampoline, filled with questions that echo louder than a herd of elephants tap-dancing in stilettos. Where does all the time go, anyway? Probably off chasing unicorns and leprechauns, leaving us with nothing but late-night snacks and philosophical ponderings.

Once upon a time, love and companionship were as abundant as memes on the internet, lighting up our lives like a Christmas tree on steroids. But now, our hearts feel as fragile as a Jenga tower in an earthquake, yearning for that warm fuzzy feeling like a cat chasing a laser beam.

Yet, even in the depths of despair, there’s a flicker of hope – a reminder that love and connection endure, like cockroaches surviving a nuclear apocalypse. It’s in the little things, like finding a parking spot on a busy street or getting the last slice of pizza at a party, that we find relief, knowing that despite life’s curveballs, love remains as stubborn as a mule.

So let’s keep truckin’, dear friend. Let’s keep searching for that elusive connection, knowing that love is a rollercoaster ride with no height requirement, even when it feels like we’re stuck in the kiddie section. And who knows? Maybe, just maybe, amidst the chaos and confusion, we’ll stumble upon our happily ever after like a drunk stumbling into bed after a wild night out.

“For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.” – Ecclesiastes 3:1


سیصد و شصت و پنج روز پیش دل را به دریا زدم . نتیجه اما فقط از دست دادن و دل تنگی بود. لذت تماشای صورت آنکه همه چیز بود به پوچی و انزوا تبدیل شد . صدای تنهایی در سرم می‌پیچد و به مانند اسبی که ساعت ها در بیابان چهارنعل رفته ، خسته ام . چند روز دیگر بیشتر نمانده . باید خاک و مادرم را برای همیشه رها کنم . سرمایه ناچیزی دارم. سالی که گذشت یک حس عجیب ماندگار برایم به جا گذاشته . پس آن گنج بی نهایت کجاست؟ جادوگر سیاه با طلسمی جاودانه فراغت را بر من حرام کرده. شیطان به شکل یک مار نا امیدی بیمارگونه را به زیر پوستم تزریق کرده است . در آخرین روز سال روی میز طبابت در حال خوردن پیتزا مارگاریتای یخ زده به عمق احساساتم شیرجه میزنم . ولی خستگی توان سلطان را ربوده است . در تهران باغی پر‌از گل نرگس وجود دارد . اما سرکوبگران عسل را از کندوی ما گرفته اند . بزرگترین انتقام من از او این است که رهایش کنم . سوراخی که در قلب من وجود دارد سراسر رنج و آزادی است. نگاه کن به این ویرانه ! ولی هیچ به مانند بوسه ی اول مطلق و به یاد ماندنی نیست. یک غذای بسیار خوشمزه ولی کم پروتئین نیاز جسم انسان را برآورده نمی‌کند . کار و تلاش دائمی جنگیست که در نهایت محکوم به شکست است . این روح سراسر آشوب را کسی گردن نمی‌گیرد . مثل زنبور نیش میزنم و سپس تمام

 آری ، او دیگر مرده است . جای خالی یک توده‌ی سرطانی در میان مغزم به مانند یک آبسه ی چرکی ورم کرده . معصومیت نگاهی که از دست رفت . آن میل بی نهایت به همه چیز تبدیل به یک بی تفاوتی سنگین شده . سبک و بی حاصل در جهان گز می‌کنم .به من دست بزن تا حس لمس آرام پوست سوخته ی یک بمب گذار انتحاری را تجربه کنی

این پایان یک تراژدی است. به راستی که این همه فکر و فشار از برای چه بود ؟ حسن ختام وجود ندارد . مسخ در یک هم آغوشی آسمانی.از این بی بند و باری پاتولوژیک تهوع می گیرم . این یک فرار بی حاصل از مرگ است


In the realm of stars, she boldly roams,
A Sagittarius girl with dreams that foam.
Her innocent face, a celestial grace,
Belies the wild mind, an untamed chase.

With arrows of wit, she takes her aim,
In realms of thought, she’s never tame.
Her laughter echoes, a wild, carefree sound,
As she dances through life, unbound.

Beneath her innocence, a spark ignites,
A fiery spirit that fiercely fights.
Her sarcasm cuts, a double-edged sword,
Yet beneath it all, a heart adored.

She wanders the world with eyes aglow,
Seeking adventures wherever she may go.
In her, contradictions beautifully blend,
A Sagittarius spirit, until the end.

In her wanderlust, galaxies are her guide,
With each step, her spirit soars wide.
Through cosmic dust and astral streams,
She navigates life’s wildest dreams.

Her laughter, a symphony of stars,
Echoing through Venus and Mars.
In her, the universe finds its muse,
A Sagittarius girl, forever infused.

Between the bars

As i was wandering through the streets of Shiraz, I got overwhelmed by some mysterious yearnings. The warm evening breeze carried the scent of flowers, whispering tales of forgotten dreams and promises unfulfilled. It felt as though this place held secrets waiting to be unraveled.

In a quaint corner café, I sought refuge from the world, seeking solace amidst the gentle hum of conversation and the melodious strumming of a guitar. The melancholic melody that filled the air resonated with the emotions that had been tugging at my soul. It spoke of temptation, of escaping the pressures of reality, and surrendering to the allure of the present moment.

As the singer’s voice intertwined with the nostalgic notes, I found myself captivated, transported to a different realm. The lyrics spoke of shedding the burdens of the past, leaving behind those who no longer belonged in our lives, and embracing a new beginning.

Caught in the sway of the music, my gaze met that of a mysterious woman across the room. Her eyes held a spark of mischief and allure, as if she understood the unspoken desires that resided within me. With a subtle nod, she beckoned me to join her, and in that moment, I felt an invisible thread pulling me towards her, whispering that this encounter had the potential to change everything.

Intrigued and captivated, I made my way to her table. We exchanged introductions, and she spoke in a voice that danced with a hint of secrecy. Her words urged me to let go of the past, to release the people and memories that no longer served me.

“Let’s drink up, boy,” she purred, her voice a seductive melody. I went back to my car, picked up the half-emptied vodka from the weekend. Poured it in a bottle of water and returned.

Back to the café, her words hung in the air, intermingling with the aroma of coffee and the serenade of the guitar. It was a tantalizing invitation, one that promised liberation from the constraints of my mind, an escape from the chains that held me back.

Driven by curiosity and a thirst for adventure, I raised my glass and took a sip, allowing the elixir to wash away my doubts and reservations. In that moment, a surge of exhilaration coursed through my veins, as if the weight of the world had been lifted from my shoulders.

Beneath the starry Shirazi sky, we found ourselves walking through the ancient gardens. The moonlight cast a mesmerizing glow upon us, setting the stage for an intimate connection. Our steps became slower, our voices softer, until we came to a halt, gazing into each other’s eyes.

In that moment, without a word, we leaned closer, our lips meeting in a passionate embrace. Time seemed to stand still as we surrendered to the intoxication of the kiss. It was as if the world around us faded away, leaving only the magic of that very instant.

As our lips parted, a knowing smile graced her face. It was a silent acknowledgement of the shared desire and the connection forged in that stolen moment. We continued our journey through the moonlit gardens, hand in hand, reveling in the magic of the night.

As the dawn approached, casting its gentle glow upon the horizon, we bid our farewells, cherishing the memory of that stolen kiss. Though our encounter was brief, it left an indelible mark upon my heart, a reminder that sometimes, in the most unexpected encounters, we find the courage to let go, to embrace the present, and to shape a future that is uniquely ours.

Morning Sleeper

Here we go again, waking up to another day that feels like déjà vu. Cold bed, pure loneliness – the usual morning blues. Now, what’s on the agenda today? Should I dive into learning something new or just lose myself in video games for the whole day? How do I shake off these feelings? Do I need a new partner, or should I just embrace self-love? Maybe grab that damn visa and start a new chapter somewhere else? Or should I hustle harder, drown myself in work, and chase that money?

These questions keep buzzing around, making my 30-year-old life in Iran feel like a constant battle. The weight of choices is real, pressing down on me like the scorching Shiraz sun. Ambition tugs at me while the allure of escaping reality plays its own tune.

Welcome to the age of uncertainty, where decisions morph into a maze, each turn presenting a new set of challenges. The rhythm of ambition pulls at me, urging me to strive for more, while the enchanting melody of escapism plays in the background. Morning shadows dance, mirroring the ambiguity of my path, as I strive to anchor my restless soul in a world draped in unpredictability.

The corridors of my mind echo with the persistent questions, reverberating through the ambiguity of purpose. With each unfolding day, I grapple with the uncertainty, seeking answers that can serve as beacons in the maze of life. The daily hustle becomes a quest to find meaning, a purpose that dodges me in the age of uncertainty.


I’ve lost the sense of direction again. The wind’s taste is bitter, and my moments slip away. Fridays hold no threat. My name is forgotten. These drugs are never effective enough. Intoxication persists; join if you wish. Autumn lashes with cold winds. I promised to run; you replied that everyone will run away eventually.

I protest red’s burning, blue’s coldness, and yellow’s separation. Living in this neverland is my only choice. Breath is just one word, i take it to survive the remaining sentences.

Leaves on this tree will fall too. If courage wanes, what’s left of me? Long live the one who picked the fruit. I am fresh but laden with rotten. A musician with a silent violin. This land is known for harsh earthquakes—who built our hearts this way? Me or you ?

If you seek light, I’ll shine like the sun. Forbid spring, and I’ll lay bare in winter. Clerics ban touching human flesh, burning naked. Yet, I’d buy every inch of the inferno for the sensation of your breath near mine. Let’s intertwine in execution. Fresh, yet rotten.

This land is known for harsh earthquakes—who built our hearts this way? Me or you ?


During my pre-op visit to my ophthalmologist, I was fixated on the worn tiles flooring the doctor’s office, contemplating life’s complexity like chasing a slippery hen. Last weekend’s shroom-fueled haze left kaleidoscopic patterns on the tiles, that shit was playing with my consciousness.

The following day, as the surgeon cracked my eye open, a peculiar image surfaced. I wished he’d tear apart my heart instead of my globe.

Kneeling to my mom, holding onto my dad’s hands, I acknowledged the inherent truth – it’s time to understand and embark on a journey. Soon I’m going to fly.

Addressing my Guardian angel, I sought redemption for my losses, wanting them to be safeguarded until I reach my cross. Bearing the weight, a golden trick of the world. Like Jesus. Jesus! sometimes depression lurks from behind, living in the dark, like a monster under my bed. Living my life in Shiraz, partying every night, wondering how nature can be a motherf****r.

Reflecting on the gap in my girl’s teeth and the warmth I feel, trying yo express sentiments , the needle of truth leads me forward. Born with blue veins, destined to grow wings, and then to take off. Soon I’m going to fly, and finally, I die, alone or with a family, in my home country or a faraway land.

So, I think I am a lucky one. You, like your name, are from outer space, my star in a dark night.

In a realm where belief is scarce, I found rare happiness in the connection between you and me. Some claim truth springs for hardcore seekers, but I believe truth sings to whoever listens. Born with blue veins, attuned to the song of life, destined to grow wings, and then to take off, like birds and dissipating smoke. The image on the surgery bed: Your entire body illuminated like a star, shining with a metallic glow.

Weird it was to feel blind. My sight, what a valuable thing! Yet there you were, blinding like always.


In the heart of Sri Lanka, vibrant green coconut trees stretched as far as the eye could see, Sisyphus embarked on his ceaseless journey. He trudged along the winding road, one step at a time, acknowledging the small victories along the way.
“Well done mate” he said.

As he approached the precipice again, he gazed into the morning mist , clouds of vapour in between the green landscape, his heavy burden looming over him. Sisyphus pondered his choices. Does he dare leap into the unknown, embracing the failure, or does he surrender to the eternal cycle and push the relentless rock up again?

In that moment, he raised both fists, and declared “To hell with this!” With a resolute spirit, he released the colossal stone, letting it thunder down the steep slope.

The rock careened downward, going through the valley below. He had a house once, but it was a distant memory, lost to time. Sisyphus watched as the boulder descended, his never ending task fading away with each passing second.

He accepted the inevitability of his fate, embracing the relentless uncertain hardships of future , the punishments of disobedience. Sisyphus let the rock continue its journey, rolling down to the bottom.

The house that once held his dreams was now a relic of the past, a part of his history forever lost. “How do deal with these unprecedented sighs?” He wondered.

As the rock vanished from sight, there was this realization that he would rather face failure as a mortal than endure the burden of godhood immortality on a perilous cliff.

In a world where history favored the audacious, those who stood firm and unwavering in their resolve, Sisyphus made his decision.

Let it roll, let it crash down low! Sisyphus peered into the mist, a stone’s throw from the precipice, paused at the foothill .

“But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.”-Isaiah 40:31 (NIV)