dark spot

She dies once everyday

in the middle of day and night,

hardly lives a full single breath.

what sign of life do you expect from her?

I dare.

If you find your judgement fair,

then why do you stand there

pointing at me?

convince me.

help me see through.

happy grey suit

she never talks about it

she masks her pain with a sort of machinery portrait

maybe thats why

she is never still

even her laughing out loud is so self conscious.

full moon

we hugged



and had a cup of tea.

moments full of “hmm your hair smells good”

a drop of drama

and often a half hidden pinch of salty tear.

over nothing.




there is a difference

It is supposed to make others

feel with you,

surf your wave.

It is not to feed your narcissism

It is about that liberation of manifesting who you really are

not to portrait you,

the way you wished to be seen


The one who writes

is a writer

already at the moment she fills the papers.

The one who tries to dance,

is a dancer

right after he moves to his rhythm

and exhales

we become all these, before they turn to job titles.

even if the sound of an untrained voice

does not please us,

we cant take away the joy of singing out loud,

from that person.

we leave that room,

and what happens?

she remains a singer anyway.

سنگين سري


تمام خيابان ها را گرفته است

حتي ايوان خانه ها را زنداني كرده

دست و پاي آدم هارا گره خورده

دهان ها را پر

و گوش ها را بسته به حلق

در يك مدار

با يك سيم كهنه ي باريك

ترس انگار عجين شده با وجود من و تو

كلماتمان را بشنو

فكرهايمان را بگرد

خيره شو به كنش ها و واكنش هايمان

مثل ديوانه ها به هم پيچيده ايم و سر هم فرياد مي كشيم

اما با رعايت فاصله و با رعايت سكوت

صداي جيغ و فريادمان آنقدر بلند است كه ديگر شنيده هم نمي شود

ترس چشمهايمان را خسته كرده

برق مردمك هايمان را گرفته

مات شده ايم

به هم نگاه نمي كنيم مبادا آتش خشممان شعله ور شود

شبيه يك كمد پر از پيراهن هاي توصي

از هم تشخيصمان سخت است


قلب هايمان را سنگين كرده نگاه هايمان را سبك

همه ي كنش ها و واكنش هايمان لرزان لرزان

دنيا را به شك انداخته


He has been raised here

shaped here

under the same sky

he has been sad

he has been happy

he has been dreaming

he has walked in these streets

hand in hand with his father

among all German gentlemen

all French ladies

looking like a half Spanish baby

he is a dreamer

it is true

and sometimes he hits the reality

when his planet crashes the earth

but then he gets back

to his orbit

like David Bowie

and he lives the dream again


photographs are like daily notes

they only get you when time has passed over them

however much “instant” they are becoming,

photos barely mean much instantly,

not before events have turned to stories.

they only reflect those places and those people

when they are no longer exactly there, anymore.

Social Media

as a description of ourselves

we write about our positions in life

about how we make a living

what we are good at

our status,

-the founder

-the producer

-the freelancer

-the professional photographer

-the activist

-the feminist

-the blogger

-the actor

-the dancer

-the brutally honest

-the simply happy person


where are the rest then?

if we are all here and all these,

where is the ignorant?

where are all the thieves? the liars?

where are all the sad people gone?

where is the one who does nothing?

the one who is just there, watching?

the one who hates her mom and just had a huge fight with whole family?

all of us with no job, no love, no interest?

where are all those people throwing tampons in the ocean?

the war lovers?

the ones with no friends and no birthday parties, not so grateful for having all in their life bla bla?

where is the rest of us hiding?

without a description?