I do not know if I am writing a memoir or a fictional story that is merely a product of my imagination. Recently, I cannot tell the boundary between reality and imagination. It seems that I am re-experiencing some things. It is repetitive for me. I say things that make others surprised and they say such things have not occurred. But after a day or two, they call me and ask, “How did you know this would happen? Did you have a dream about it?” My mother says good people have real dreams. But she thinks I am a good person. It is the story of the cockroach and its baby’s crystal hands and feet. If she realizes what lies behind this quiet face and what I have done in her absence, real dreams would be the last thing she would think of. I am stumbling among colors and contradictory thoughts in a world whose background color seems to be a grey mist, not knowing what is right, what is wrong. I do not know which one I am really experiencing and which one is my imagination. Sometimes my imagination is more real than my experiences. For instance, when I think of Sh….., when I think of khosrow ,as Sina Hejazi says, when  imagination and handicrafts are combined.  “And if you reach out to someone, they hesitantly take their hands out because it is bone-chilling cold.” Last night, I had a dream I was in a spaceship. It looked like a teapot and I passed through a purple gate, and after absolute darkness, I reached another purple light. I fell out of a woman’s eyes and got confined in a grape’s bubble. A boy put me in his mouth and chewed me. I was ground under his teeth. It was painful. Like a piece of meat coming out of a grinder, I went inside his mouth. I slipped. I swam in the yellow water. I got stuck in a brown liquid and as I wanted to set myself free from the stinky swamp, I showed up in a young boy’s purple dream who was thinking about a rainbow and had a mask on. Serum was pouring out of the mask’s hollow eyes and no one was seeing it and I turned into a drop pouring out of the mask on the earth. A soil ground that no one could see its bottom layers. I went down all the layers. I passed through the continental shelf, through the bodies of the people the earth had digested, and passed through the granite to reach the heat of the mantle. I saw Hera in the asthenosphere. A wandering ghost grabbed me in his fist. I rose from the soil with him and sat on a woman’s windowsill watching her making love with a man who had killed the wandering ghost that was carrying me and now had made a love-making bed out of the woman’s tears there. The very usual love triangle plot. Then I was there. I was poured from inside the man with an orgasm inside the woman and I was plunged into absolute darkness. This time I was inside an operation room as a neonate started screaming and I came back home on a nurse’s shoes. She put her feet on the desk to rest up; I was once again inside a large purple teapot that was swinging in the sky, turning into rain over northern green lands. I tell my dream to my mother. My brother wonders if this is going to come true. My mother says that I ate a lot for my dinner last night. But I was on a diet, and now, I can see the boy with a mask on international news who is arrested and taken to prison, and the murderer of the wandering ghost is hanging from a hanging rope from a crane with thousands of enthusiasts eating popcorn and watching the last trembles of a man’s feet who is about to die. Some are recording films and I can see the woman from whose eyes I fell out who is now shedding tears for the wicked murderer of her husband.  I change the channel. Vogue channel’s chef puts a purple grape inside his mouth and chews it. It is painful for me. I change the channel. A mystic is talking about God and the presenter is pouring him some tea from a purple teapot.

-works like meditation…