Author: Alireza Page 1 of 2

Iran was just attacked. Houses in Tehran were targeted. And I now think about all the people I know there. Even people I hate. And the thought of their death makes me so anxious. So fucking anxious. It’s like life is game, but death makes it all so real. I don’t want anyone I know to die. Let’s be alive and hate each other instead. I’d rather that than death.

So, music. It’s such a raw and complicated thing. I love it and I hate it. So ephemeral, so indescribable. So different from words. Words and books and writings have existed for thousands of years. Music has too, but the old ones are gone. And we think we know so much because we’ve been able to record and transcribe music for a few centuries. Fuck that shit.

But it does go to the heart. And for me, it represents certain stages of my life. The younger years, of course, it was haphazard. My dad would play us Persian pop music on our trips for us to dance and sing to in the car. I tried listening to Persian rap when I was in primary school. Then I listened to American pop in middle school. Then in high school, a lot of indie rock. Then in university, a fucking flood of new music came through.

I listened to so many new things, mainly because the people around me were sharing them with me. It was anything and everything, prog rock, jazz, folk, indie, metal, whatever. And I listened to them avidly, trying to understand the people around me. Then that time passed too and I moved to Canada.

Here, everything went fucking crazy in my life. I was so alone, and everything was so horrible sometimes. But music was there, and I started making playlists for the first time. I discovered so much music from my native language, and that was the first playlist I was proud of. Then came other ones, and each one I listened to a lot while I was making them, not because I was trying to make a playlist, but because they were helping me understand my damn complicated life and feelings. So they became memories of feelings and people and places that often no longer existed. They gave form to the ache in my heart. A virtual, abstract, untouchable form, sure, but a form.

The Turki playlist reminded me of my childhood in Tabriz. The Azeri jazz playlist reminded me of my dad and his freedom of spirit. The Streets of Life Persian rap playlist reminded me of my lonely years in the crowdedness and dirtiness of downtown Tehran. Then there was a playlist I had just for all the childhood I lost when my dad died, the feelings of joy that took me a decade and a half to even mildly experience again. There was the Persian rock playlist that reminded me that Iran wasn’t all hell, that this music could make it worth it to be Iranian. At some point after I graduated, my mind was all over the place, and so classical music seemed to make that better, and I made a playlist for that. For a few months, I was so angry, so burnt-out, that I could only listen to metal and shoegaze, and I made a long playlist for that which helped me revive and survive. Then the sadness of many lost relationships hit again, and I made a playlist for melancholic rock. And now, I feel somewhat connected to life again, or at least feel like I’m reconnecting slowly, and a prog rock playlist, a genre I hadn’t really listened for a couple of years, is being made in honor of that.

So yeah, maybe music is not such a mess. Maybe life is. And maybe future playlists will keep on capturing memories of my life.

Often, I can’t really understand why there has to be so much suffering in this world. Why poverty, cruelty, oppression, and abuse should exist. Why people should be so hurt. Why powerful people should be so selfish and why the powerless so powerless. It really isn’t even about the lack of justice for me, it’s more that my mind literally cannot comprehend it. How can it even be possible? Perhaps this lack of comprehension is why people end up supporting dictators and bullies. Not because they’re bad, but because, like me, their minds cannot accept the reality of this cruelty. Maybe it’s too painful. Maybe it would push us into a depression that can never be cured. And then, what is life, if so dark? Maybe the next generation will figure it out. Things are moving fast in these decades and centuries, so who knows. But I doubt it. Because the people I grew up with, they definitely also know how to be cruel, selfish, and abusive. People are monsters and the world is hell. And no matter how much we trick our brains, this is a fact that will never change.

Well, apparently I’ve got something called Recurrent Corneal Erosion. It’s when your eye gets dry at night, and when you open it in the morning, a thin layer gets pulled off of the eye. It’s painful and horrible and I hate it.

HOWEVER, the experience has been interesting. The pain causes you to want to sleep until your eye heals itself enough for you to be functional, usually in a few hours. In those hours, the foggy pain goes to the back of your head, and everything feels so odd, lonely, and old. You realize the importance of love. You realize that you wish you had someone with you, like the divorced middle aged man in House MD whose wife and kids come to him while he’s sick but then he leaves them again when he gets better. But you’re a better person, so you remember the pain even when it’s gone. You know that what you felt was real, that it says something. And fuck it you don’t want to be alone the next time it happens.

I’ve realized that life can only have meaning if we, in our heads, have the ability to make meaningful stories of it. It doesn’t make sense, so we have to make it make sense. We have to say there was a reason for that shit friendship, or that lonely, painful year. We have to be able to tell stories. We do it either through religions, detaching ourselves a little bit, or, for me, by finding connections to the stories of movies and books and other people’s lives that I know of. And that’s important I think, because not everyone seems to be able to do it. And if you can’t make sense of your own story, like how the story of a book makes sense, you’ll always be hopeless, destitute, depressed. So I guess this is the importance of fiction for me.

In therapy, and in my journey of healing through a lot of my traumatic experiences, I’ve had weeks where everything was absolutely horrible. Everything felt anxious. And my body could feel it.

Around the same time that I started this journey, I also began weightlifting. With weightlifting, a lot of that burden was taken off. I could feel my body feeling that anxiety and working right through it.

At the beginning, it was everything. Since my body was new to weightlifting, every strength training exercise helped. My confidence soared. Deadlifts in particular were pretty fun. After a year though, it was just a habit and it didn’t really work on those anxieties much anymore.

But there were weeks when I was going through something deep in therapy, and was feeling a lot of things. And depending on what I was experiencing, some exercise seemed to hit the spot for that feeling and anxiety.

Most recently, it’s been squats. I felt insecure, and squats gave me security and strength right inside my trunk, it seemed. It strengthens my heart. It’s still ongoing with this one, so I can tell you that as I lay in my bed writing this, I’m craving squats, an exercise that I always avoid as much as I can.

Another one was pull ups and other shoulder and upper back focused exercises like some yoga poses and stretches. They finally took a heavy weight off my shoulders and made me slightly more social and less burdened.

Another had been yoga itself. It released so much tension that had been built up inside me. I felt free, like the white Canadian boys I envied (haha).

That’s all to say, I’m glad I found weightlifting. It’s fucking amazing.

What does it all matter? When we are constantly alone, in the universe, in our rooms, in our heads, in our cold bodies, what does it matter?

It doesn’t. Loneliness is eternal. Love is not. Warmth is not. I guess we live for the temporary things. Temporary families, temporary relationships, temporary acts of kindness, temporary empathy.

But doesn’t that suck? It does. I fucking hate it.