As I am writing these words and while these sentences are formed, I am only thinking of the joy of writing: I am not trying to find the meaning of the words and their relation to each other. And then, occasionally, my joy of writing, my words, and my sentences, may convey a meaning that you want!
That meaning is meaningless to me!
Much like the sentence: “Haj Abdollah Kebab House under the management of Fazlollah Bakhshi,” written in nastaliq, hung on the wall of a Japanese family. Obviously, we Iranians never hang such a sentence on our walls. Because before appreciating the calligraphy itself (the curves, the angles, the bending of the letters, their proportions, and their beautiful elongations), the meaning of the words is a hindrance to relishing nastaliq aesthetically.
Perhaps, we can put it like this: Nastaliq is an aesthetic discipline—for those who do not speak Persian.