I have a new motivation to write again. Well, motivation was there, but now I have a reason: so one day you can read the story of your life. I am already narrating your life with pictures in Persian, and I have no clue what you'll think about it later. As of now, I have no plan to force on you a formal education to read and write in Persian. But maybe you can read this later, assuming I continue to write. There has always been my long-lost dream of writing better in English. Did you know I would imagine my future as a writer? Then I migrated, and many dreams died to give room for new ones. Why write in public? Not sure. I doubt anyone reads this blog anymore, and even if they do, they will choose to read it in English. But again, I have never written anywhere else.
You are seven months and a few days now; we are in Iran, and you are now used to your grandparents. You smile to everyone and never complain, and we keep telling people that even though you look like me to the eye, you are a copy of your mom when it comes to what matters: your personality. You are the heart of every party we go to, and people are mesmerized by how little you complaine and how happy you are always. Then, they tell us something we know very well: that we are blessed.

And you made your first kick today.
And I keep repeating: miracle of life.

Magnolia trees are blossoming as if to taunt the rest of the sleepy garden with their magnificence. I feel, for the first time in a long time, that finally there is a possibility, a possibility to live into.

Philosophy is to be studied, not for the sake of any definite answers to its questions since no definite answers can, as a rule, be known to be true, but rather for the sake of the questions themselves; because these questions enlarge our conception of what is possible, enrich our intellectual imagination and diminish the dogmatic assurance which closes the mind against speculation; but above all because, through the greatness of the universe which philosophy contemplates, the mind also is rendered great, and becomes capable of that union with the universe which constitutes its highest good.

Bertrand Russell, The Value of Philosophy

I know she likes the sunset but not the darkness that settles afterwards. Today she said she loves these dark hours. Surprised, I asked what had changed. She asked me to listen and hear the birds singing, that they give her hope, and that their songs change everything

You hear there is a thin line between reality and perception or illusion or dream or whatever you want to call it. Tonight, while processing this new reality, I found a new realm: a realm that is neither real nor a dream. It may happen or not; it has potential; it is possible. Still, the line between this realm of possibility and the other two is thin. When I forget its existence, it recedes to the land of dreams, and when I dwell on it too much, it seems more real than it is.
Not even sure what I should feel and possibly will never know. Maybe this is what this whole thing is about: an uncertain journey you start, but someone else will walk it to the finish line.

You Just Always Know What You Think. I'm Not Like That.
Normal People