Young Persian

[shushanika]

Then I get to meet him— a young Persian with big dark moist
eyes and a look so detached that it is almost frightening.
Too damn young for his own good, too depressed and
confused. In this cold hostile city he looks like a little
haunted beast, driven into this place, drawn into the
farthest corner of the coffee shop, holding tightly a paper
cup with lukewarm coffee, ****ing desperately on his
cigarette. When I come up to him, he raises his eyes and
the look he gives is so sad and so lonely that I am
instantly filled with compassion . Who else but me knows
better what it’s like to be so alone. He asks m if I ever
feel at home here and I say never. Feeling at home is more
of a state of heart, I tell him, so it doesn’t matter
where you are. As long as he’s at home with himself. Home
is a place you carry in your heart. He gives a sigh and
there is dejection in that sigh. I start telling him about
the outsider, he instantly fixes his eyes on me considering
what I tell him. He seems to be brooding over what I say
and at that moment there is some kind of unspoken
understanding between the two of us. As if we become a part
of each other, and a part of all the lonely people that are
out there in the world. We’re one of a kind, that young
depressed kid and me who’s only too familiar with the state
and is growing indifferent and old— simply jaded.

I find it very easy to talk to him. He’s really too
trusting, and yes, too young, and I know I could tell him
a whole lot more that this miserable tale of Camus. I could
talk for hours to this stranger who is surprisingly open to
me this instant and I know he would sit there glued,
desperately clinging to my words, carefully taking them
in , and I know that for this short instant I could fill in
the bottomless pit of despair and emptiness that’s there
inside him, but I am tired and it’s getting late and I say
goodbye and walk out without knowing if I will ever see him
again. I know I will entertain the thought what happened to
him for some time and then forget about him completely. I
will go on wandering in my own desolation and finding
comfort in it. There seems to be no strangers I would run
into who would tell me what I need to hear. And tired and
empty I will proceed, another hunted little beast in this
big city that keeps me its captive, where I find neither
home nor rest.

[nm]

оппаньки

specially for shushanika -- 'оппаньки' should be spelled as op-pan-ki.

[Sandaramet]

Originally Posted by shushanika

Then I get to meet him— a young Persian with big dark moist
eyes and a look so detached that it is almost frightening.
Too damn young for his own good, too depressed and
confused. In this cold hostile city he looks like a little
haunted beast, driven into this place, drawn into the
farthest corner of the coffee shop, holding tightly a paper
cup with lukewarm coffee, ****ing desperately on his
cigarette. When I come up to him, he raises his eyes and
the look he gives is so sad and so lonely that I am
instantly filled with compassion . Who else but me knows
better what it’s like to be so alone. He asks m if I ever
feel at home here and I say never. Feeling at home is more
of a state of heart, I tell him, so it doesn’t matter
where you are. As long as he’s at home with himself. Home
is a place you carry in your heart. He gives a sigh and
there is dejection in that sigh. I start telling him about
the outsider, he instantly fixes his eyes on me considering
what I tell him. He seems to be brooding over what I say
and at that moment there is some kind of unspoken
understanding between the two of us. As if we become a part
of each other, and a part of all the lonely people that are
out there in the world. We’re one of a kind, that young
depressed kid and me who’s only too familiar with the state
and is growing indifferent and old— simply jaded.

I find it very easy to talk to him. He’s really too
trusting, and yes, too young, and I know I could tell him
a whole lot more that this miserable tale of Camus. I could
talk for hours to this stranger who is surprisingly open to
me this instant and I know he would sit there glued,
desperately clinging to my words, carefully taking them
in , and I know that for this short instant I could fill in
the bottomless pit of despair and emptiness that’s there
inside him, but I am tired and it’s getting late and I say
goodbye and walk out without knowing if I will ever see him
again. I know I will entertain the thought what happened to
him for some time and then forget about him completely. I
will go on wandering in my own desolation and finding
comfort in it. There seems to be no strangers I would run
into who would tell me what I need to hear. And tired and
empty I will proceed, another hunted little beast in this
big city that keeps me its captive, where I find neither
home nor rest.

so what?

[shushanika]

I can read russian, although i don't quite understand the word. I've been absent for WAY too long, it seems.

[shushanika]

[QUOTE=Sandaramet]so what? [/QUOTE

I know this may not make sense, neither the language of this post, nor the content, but the reason i posted this was because...of a pang of nostalgia about Yerevan. This happened in Yerevan. Not that long ago, but it seems I've been gone forever. I miss the city terribly. Especially now, during the winter time, when the mood starts creeping in about the place under another sky, cold and desolete but so harazat. To me, this is what Yerevan has been about, being young, confused, lost, alone. I had to let it out somehow, somewhere. This forum seemed suitable, although i do apologize if you find this inapropriate. And I do apologize if this may cause any one of you any inconvenience.

Sincerely
Nika

[Sandaramet]

shushanika: take it easy .. I already understood you!