Solitude, pouring like fat flakes of snow, has been tumbling over men’s heads for centuries, and is at times so immense and terrifying that despite thousands of tricks us humans have been pulling and the ever-increasing use of messy social interactions, it seems to be stretched like a vast, unending desert. In such an expanse, man has been cut from his corners of security, so long that he sees a ghost of serenity in the memory of a shrine, a monument, a qadamgah or an imamzadeh.
The frozen earth and the dense-clouded sky are flattering themselves with a dream of the warmth of peace from afar—the warmth unlike the sunlight, heating the roots, and it might even melt all this snow one day. Although the snow wouldn’t cover the monuments, it comes tumbling down, melting, and hiding away somewhere underground, waiting for a pure water-spring to bring it back.
Kiarang Alaei, 2015