Just listen, ok?

Today was the first day of August, and I found myself wondering whether I should wish you a happy birthday or not. I kept going back and forth about it. Unsure whether saying it would be too much. And then I saw you were calling me. I was really happy. More than I probably should have been. I answered with this little burst of excitement, expecting... well, I don’t even know what I was expecting. Maybe just the smallest excuse to talk to you on your birthday. But after the hello and the usual greetings, you quickly explained that you had accidentally called me instead of your barber. You said it almost immediately, as if you needed to make sure there was absolutely no room for me to misunderstand what had happened. As if even the smallest possibility that I might think you had called me intentionally was something you wanted to prevent. And I understood. So I did the same thing. I acted like I was busy. Like I had things to do, somewhere to be, something more important occupying my mind. I didn’t let you hear how happy I had been to see your name on my screen. I didn’t even wish you a happy birthday, because I didn’t want there to be any misunderstanding either. It was almost funny, in a way two people standing on opposite sides of the same little misunderstanding, each one carefully making sure the other couldn’t mistake their feelings for something they weren’t supposed to be feeling. You were so quick to tell me it was an accident. And I was so quick to pretend that I didn’t care. Maybe that’s what makes the whole thing feel a little sad to me. Not that you called me by mistake. Not even that I didn’t get to wish you a happy birthday. It’s that for a few seconds, I was genuinely happy to hear from you. And then, almost immediately, I reminded myself that I shouldn’t be.

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هیچکس نمی‌تونه در مقابل تماس نیمه‌شب من مقاومت کنه و جواب نده!

‏درسته که ارزشمندی محمدجان، ولی بپذیر که دیگه نباید بیشتر از این برای خواسته‌هات بجنگم، چون پس هر جنگی چیزی از آدم کم می‌شه؛ و من دیگه چیزی برای از دست دادن ندارم.

زندگی رسم خوشایندی است. زندگی بال و پری دارد با وسعت مرگ، پرشی دارد اندازهٔ عشق. زندگی چیزی نیست، که لب طاقچهٔ عادت از یاد من و تو برود. زندگی جذبه دستی است که می‌چیند. زندگی نوبر انجیر سیاه، در دهان گس تابستان است. زندگی بُعد درخت است به چشم حشره. زندگی تجربه شب پره در تاریکی است. زندگی حس غریبی است که یک مرغ مهاجر دارد. زندگی سوت قطاری است که در خواب پلی می‌پیچد. زندگی دیدن یک باغچه از شیشه مسدود هواپیماست. خبر رفتن موشک به فضا، لمس تنهایی ماه، فکر بوییدن گل در کره‌ای دیگر. - سهراب سپهری