The Absence or On London, Through My Eyes
Grief is now a suspended sun, like the prevented rays of the sun in greyish cloudy London.
I was walking down the High Street Kensington, contemplating the Magnolias whose nature demands the death before to open in such wishful manner. I figured it out, the thing which sometimes makes me both meaningless and imprecise in this city. That is all about the entire concept of sorrow which is barely hung in London's air, which used to be the breath I would take in Tehran.
A couple of years ago, when I visited the museum of contemporary art in Istanbul, there I discovered a new sort of eastern sorrow which was vividly relative to the one in Persian literature and the current daily life in Tehran. That was the time when I assumed that each city should have the characterized sorrow of its own, like the one I deeply felt in Auschwitz.
Now, London is proving it wrong. Yet I have not found the footprints of immortally human sorrows, those which tend to penetrate deep into bones of man. No signs even from the World War II- to which the general attitude is proud rather than grief. All these sound astonishing to me while they are what my daily life is lacking for, what make the sense of Saudade linger on up to the glassy partitions of IKA, up to the point where I can hear the crack of the glass inside me.
I was walking down the High Street Kensington, contemplating the Magnolias whose nature demands the death before to open in such wishful manner. I figured it out, the thing which sometimes makes me both meaningless and imprecise in this city. That is all about the entire concept of sorrow which is barely hung in London's air, which used to be the breath I would take in Tehran.
A couple of years ago, when I visited the museum of contemporary art in Istanbul, there I discovered a new sort of eastern sorrow which was vividly relative to the one in Persian literature and the current daily life in Tehran. That was the time when I assumed that each city should have the characterized sorrow of its own, like the one I deeply felt in Auschwitz.
Now, London is proving it wrong. Yet I have not found the footprints of immortally human sorrows, those which tend to penetrate deep into bones of man. No signs even from the World War II- to which the general attitude is proud rather than grief. All these sound astonishing to me while they are what my daily life is lacking for, what make the sense of Saudade linger on up to the glassy partitions of IKA, up to the point where I can hear the crack of the glass inside me.
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