I can say it as many times as I please.
“I hate you.”
I can say it from the moment I wake up to the moment I sleep at night, as the soft luminance of the moon kisses upon my face, my heart and my soul.
But behind all of that hate, as the moon gently caresses my inner being, it can only smell one thing; smell of Mohamadi flowers.
The sound of tea pouring into clear teacups, with the source being from a porcelain tea pot with colours of firooze - a harsh yet beautiful Cyan - and details of flowers among its shining exterior.
It gently sits among the carpet laid on the floor; patterns. Red, in many shades. Almost like a poppy flower. White and beige, reminding me of the colours of that tower right in the middle of my soul. black and blue dipped on the surface of a yellow much like a dandelion.
It flips the pages of a book full of stories. Warriors, demons, philosophers of sorts who have all been carved into the lyrics of myths told to us by our elders as they cradled us to sleep in a room of prayer mats and flower pots.
The smell of freshly peeled pomegranate fills up the same room, as specks of its blood redness flicks upon my face and fingers.
It makes me serene. And so I close my eyes.
I wish I never hated you. I wish I never got to push you away.
And yet, how longer can I utter an “I hate you” to the soil of where my roots have grown?
“I hate you.”
I can say it from the moment I wake up to the moment I sleep at night, as the soft luminance of the moon kisses upon my face, my heart and my soul.
But behind all of that hate, as the moon gently caresses my inner being, it can only smell one thing; smell of Mohamadi flowers.
The sound of tea pouring into clear teacups, with the source being from a porcelain tea pot with colours of firooze - a harsh yet beautiful Cyan - and details of flowers among its shining exterior.
It gently sits among the carpet laid on the floor; patterns. Red, in many shades. Almost like a poppy flower. White and beige, reminding me of the colours of that tower right in the middle of my soul. black and blue dipped on the surface of a yellow much like a dandelion.
It flips the pages of a book full of stories. Warriors, demons, philosophers of sorts who have all been carved into the lyrics of myths told to us by our elders as they cradled us to sleep in a room of prayer mats and flower pots.
The smell of freshly peeled pomegranate fills up the same room, as specks of its blood redness flicks upon my face and fingers.
It makes me serene. And so I close my eyes.
I wish I never hated you. I wish I never got to push you away.
And yet, how longer can I utter an “I hate you” to the soil of where my roots have grown?
💘3
Forwarded from Jester is going back to the 2000s (Jester)
خجالت نکشبد از سر ترس کم کم به ایدئولوژی نازیای فاشیست رو بیارید😐
Forwarded from Jester is going back to the 2000s (Jester)
اولا که دشمن دشمنت دوستت نیست حالا هر طرف قضیه میخوای باشی
دوما هیتلر عاشق چشم ابروت نیست، ما فقط نزدیکش نبودیم وگرنه همونقدر ایرانیا هم بگای سگ میداد
دوما هیتلر عاشق چشم ابروت نیست، ما فقط نزدیکش نبودیم وگرنه همونقدر ایرانیا هم بگای سگ میداد
“I like Hitler now”
Zionism does not equal being Jewish. Zionism is the firm belief that Israel should exist as a state. Being Jewish is something different with a different ideology. In the bible, the state of Israel refers to the semetic region aka Palestine. Its name is just Israel.
Also, Hitler would hate you, ایرانی عزیز. You’re tan, have dark hair, bushy eyebrows, hair all over your body and you speak a language that uses the Arabic alphabet/noscript for writing. He would send you to a concentration camp immediately if he saw you.
Zionism does not equal being Jewish. Zionism is the firm belief that Israel should exist as a state. Being Jewish is something different with a different ideology. In the bible, the state of Israel refers to the semetic region aka Palestine. Its name is just Israel.
Also, Hitler would hate you, ایرانی عزیز. You’re tan, have dark hair, bushy eyebrows, hair all over your body and you speak a language that uses the Arabic alphabet/noscript for writing. He would send you to a concentration camp immediately if he saw you.
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دیشب اومدم به خودم گفتم بالاخره قراره تابستون برم ایران یکم خوشحال شم و صبح بلند شدم و همه چی به ریدمان کشیده شد از این به بعد غلط کنم حرفی مثل این بگم
😭4
the weirdkids archives
چقدر خوشحال بودم که قراره بریم تهران💔 حالا مامانم زنگ زده به خالم میگه بیاین رشت💔
من چقدر خوشحال بودم برم کافه تو شهر خودم - بعد زارت شهر منم زدن😭
بدتر از اونم اینه که من بشدت عاشق تبریزم بچگیام باید هعی اونجا میرفتیم چون بیشتر فامیلام اونجان و نزدیک ترین شهر بزرگیه به شهر خودم که میتونم بریم خوشگذرونی اونم زارتتتتت
بدتر از اونم اینه که من بشدت عاشق تبریزم بچگیام باید هعی اونجا میرفتیم چون بیشتر فامیلام اونجان و نزدیک ترین شهر بزرگیه به شهر خودم که میتونم بریم خوشگذرونی اونم زارتتتتت
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کص مادر ج.ا
کص مادر اسرائیل
کص مادر pro-shah
کص مادر هر کی که فکر میکنه بجای نجات دادن خودتون باید یه دیکتاتور بیاریم بزاریم اینجا برامون شبیه پرنسس بشینه
کص مادر اسرائیل
کص مادر pro-shah
کص مادر هر کی که فکر میکنه بجای نجات دادن خودتون باید یه دیکتاتور بیاریم بزاریم اینجا برامون شبیه پرنسس بشینه
…میگن زیر رصد خانه شهرم سپاه داره فعالیت میکنه دارم میرینم بخندم یا گریه کنم
Forwarded from the weirdkids archives (Ava John)
My father and I sit in front of the tv as my mother cries for her brothers
And he tells me stories about the last war when he was still eleven, how him and his friends and family would hide from bombs when he was no more than a boy
And I stare at the events on the screen
And nothing has changed.
Still powerful old men stay safe in their castles, rambling about their great revenge while our children die.
The sight of the young boy from my mother's village who was beheaded by the enemy soldiers, his abandoned corpse haunts her dreams
And tonight I feel the same dread that she felt as a child
And years later my children will feel it too
It keeps repeating again and again
And the only ones who get hurt in the end are us.
And he tells me stories about the last war when he was still eleven, how him and his friends and family would hide from bombs when he was no more than a boy
And I stare at the events on the screen
And nothing has changed.
Still powerful old men stay safe in their castles, rambling about their great revenge while our children die.
The sight of the young boy from my mother's village who was beheaded by the enemy soldiers, his abandoned corpse haunts her dreams
And tonight I feel the same dread that she felt as a child
And years later my children will feel it too
It keeps repeating again and again
And the only ones who get hurt in the end are us.
Oh btw I did a reading with Lord Apollo and Lord Ares yesterday about the situation in Iran they said we’re fucked. ❤️
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