By the time we reached Old Town, Alexandria, it was 10 minutes to 12 a.m. People of all ages gathered under the bridge, by the side walks or by their cars. Some were already drunk, shouting at each other from opposite sides of the road. Whatever spot they found, that's where they stayed. As we searched for a parking space, we heard the fire works. There was no place to park. It was 12 and we said Happy New Year to each other in the car. We finally parked the car and were able to see some of the fire works from behind some houses.
Out in the streets, the adults looked for bars, the only places open at that time. R and I gave up the thought of having a warm Starbucks drink.
We drove home, listening to the live D.J at Fur Night Club. It was a lonely, yet beautiful New Year's Eve.

The weather reporters said we will have a lot of sun today. Except the sky was pure grey. As I walked from my bus stop, the wind felt like a slap on my face.
As I sit here with an empty cereal bowl next to me, I’m thinking about what I’m looking forward to. Am I looking forward to tomorrow?
Sometimes, it’s the days we look forward to that make us happy, that urge us to keep going, to keep trying. If it isn’t sunny today, then perhaps we can look forward to a warm breakfast the next morning, or a hot cup of tea as the rain washes the bad memories away.

I have started a relationship with a chat screen. It's a temporary one. One of these days it will be over. My friend Shubi invited me to a site and now we've found guys who never did and never will exist in our lives. One lives in Britain. One in India. Our roads will never connect to theirs. It's that simple.
I don't regret this imaginary, yet beautiful illusion that I have created for myself. Shubi doesn't either. We wished the "relationship" could somehow be real, no matter how unrealistic.
Sometimes even the most sensible person, as Nur put it, can be a little senseless. I don’t believe illusions are wrong. I don’t think making yourself believe you’re worth it is wrong. Happiness, no matter how temporary, shouldn’t be titled “wrong”.

Home. Our safety, our family, our fights, our good-night kisses and good-mornings. We all have our own definition of home. For my best friend Shubi, home is her house in New Delhi, India. Home is the memories of her grandpa taking her to school. It's the room she slept in. It's where she fought with her older brother.
What we first grow to love can never be replaced. Whether it's our first love, our first pet or the first home we grew up in. Replacing them is almost impossible, but learning to make new ones is not.
I refused to call America home for a long time. Maybe it wasn't a refusal, maybe it was. I always think of Tehran and say that is my home. Now, America has given me another definition and I've grown to own it.
Dorothy in "The Wizard of Oz" was right when she said there is no place like home. My home in Tehran can never be replaced with any other one. My childhood memories can never be replaced with any others. Replacing isn't what I'm trying to do. Accepting and owning the new, that’s what I’ve done.

In English class we have to find the realities of what we write. If we write about a childhood memory, we have to find a deeper meaning, a realization.
I think everything we do, every minute we spend, has its own reality. We don’t think about them, but they’re there.

The library closed so we went downstairs to find a spot. We decided to go to English class to see if Mr. Booz was in his room. It was 4 p.m. and he had left already.
We sat on the stairs instead. As we proof-read our papers, Nur and I laughed about something that happened in Government class. Soon Swati joined us. That day we spent three hours editing, laughing, joking, and acting silly. We were three friends, simply living in the moment. As we walked through the empty hallways towards the main entrance, we couldn’t stop laughing.
A day later I asked Nur jokingly, “So what was the reality of yesterday?”
She looked at me and casually said, “The reality is that we’ve grown to laugh in between finishing assignments and making grades. We’ve learned to take the hard things a little easier. We’ve learned that no matter how stressed we are, no matter how tough it is being a teenager, it’s possible to laugh once in a while, to be wild and crazy.”
Every fact, every story, and every memory can have a meaning if you look deep down. The childhood memories that we rarely think about are full of facts, full of little details. It’s up to us to look for their reality.

i drank a chocolate milkshake last night. i was wearing my cousin's Virginia Tech hat with my scarf wrapped around my neck. With each sip I felt like i was in heaven.
"Whoever made this shake should be given a Noble Prize!" i said and they laughed at me.
At certain occasions it hits me that i've come to know who i am. the fact that i admit it surprises some people. But i do. it took years for me to figure out who i want to be. and i think i finally know. once you know yourself, you feel like you own the world. i don't know if i own it yet, but i do feel that i belong to it. to this life. to this place.

Lonely. I can see the lights around my building, flickering, welcoming me back. But, I don’t want to be back. I want the road to keep going. I want the music to keep playing. I don’t want to be home. Why can't it keep going, why can't it take me far away, away from reality, away from uncertainties and intangible dreams? But, this road ends at one point. I’ve hit a dead-end and I have to step out of the car.

She sits next to me and as the bus starts moving, takes out her lip gloss. She twists its end and rolls it on her lips. She does this every morning and now the task is so ordinary and routine that she doesn’t need a mirror anymore. “You want it?” she asks, I smile and say “no”. The bus keeps moving. I only hear the engines; everyone is quiet. Our mornings never change. We wait for our yellow bus at the bus-stop and check the time. The sky is pure black and I'm thinking of my warm bed at home.
These mornings and afternoons have become too cliché, too redundant, too ordinary. We let them pass and think we would never want to look back at them. But there does come a time when looking back becomes a new habit, a need.

He remembers my birthdays and sends me his love. He's watched me grow and although we live apart, he was there at every step of the way. He takes care of his little sister and gives her words of encouragement, words she needs to hear.
What would a girl do without her big brother's love and support?
When I was a little girl, he bought me my dream Barbie dolls. He bought me Disney movies and introduced me to the world of cinema and movies. He held my little hands and showed me off to the world.
He created Bluebirdescape and gave me a place to write. He let the world hear what I have to say. My words of thanks will never be equal to how much he has given me on every day of my life.
Today is his birthday and now it's my turn to show him off to the world. I want the whole world to know how much I love my big brother.
Happy birthday baradare azizam, my dearest.
Love,
Bluebird
Tavalodet mobarak dadash.
Dooset daram.

I’m staring into my hot cup of tea, counting the perfectly shaped bubbles that have gathered around it. The bubbles come in different sizes, but nonetheless they are perfectly round. This tea is perfect; it soothes me, calms me, and makes me unreasonably happy. My unfinished letter is sitting on my lap; I’ll finish it as soon as I have my last sip. This night feels undone, like an unfinished puzzle. But I have no other way of ending it. It’s another Saturday night, where nothing is perfect except the bubbles in my cup.

Life is sometimes a series of “ifs and buts”. I was sitting on my toilet seat, in my pink bathrobe, going through my thoughts. I was thinking out loud since I had the opportunity to be alone, away from my family, the temporary outsiders. I let the water run in the sink for a few minutes to make sure I wouldn’t be heard. It occurred to me that all my plans for the next few months were hypothetical “if” scenarios. But these “ifs” are what I depend on, what I look forward to. What do you do when all you have is an “if” or a “maybe”? What do you do when all you can count on is fate, luck, a chance, or a happenstance…

Is it possible to forget how to cry? Is it possible to be out of tears? I feel that I've reached a point where I can just be sad, depressed or angry without the tears and tissues. It's like I can forget how ridiculously lonely I feel at times; I simply move on. Is it moving on or is it accepting? Maybe I've accepted how meaningless some things are and how little they can make me feel. Maybe I've learned to forget and leave them behind. It doesn't really matter what the reason may or may not be. What matters is me being happy, and being able to ignore the occasional downfalls.

The clothes inside the washing machine are revolving ...I'm watching the colors...blue, red, green, white...
It's a continuous circle, in full non-stop motion...
How many times do we get to see the things we see everyday? How many times do we get to live? At some point, this ongoing circle may take a different turn. At some point, this circle will stop. What then?
The machine stops, I open it and take the clothes out.

Timidly, I opened a bottle of mascara and applied it to my lashes. I took a tissue out of its box and gently pressed it against my red lips. I was afraid, afraid the makeup would change me. But it was the change itself I was afraid of, not the bottle of mascara or the red lipstick.
Sometimes we’re afraid of transformations, of stepping out of the norm. Somehow old habits and customs give us a feeling of safety and protection. But protection against what? The outside world? Or our other side?
Makeup did become a part of my life and so did many other things. What changed in me was not because of my new habits, but because I knew what I wanted.

R and I were eating breakfast and I thought of our childhood wishes. The little girl inside of me always wanted a Barbie doll house. She wanted Barbie, Ken, and their son to have their own home. That was her biggest wish. Now, after 18 years, I want an airplane ticket, and I don’t care about the destination.
When we’re older, is it possible to let go of our dreams the way we let them go as children?
We finish our breakfast and laugh. I’m thinking of the little girl who never got the Barbie doll house…

My father spilled some of the left over food we brought back from the restaurant on his black coat. He was checking the mail like he always does when the box of food accidentally opened. I laughed as I poured the clothes softener into its container. My sister was laughing in the living room and my mother joined her from my room. It was a silly thing to laugh about, but we enjoyed it.
We make each other laugh and cry. Our life has been up and down. We've been apart and back together again. But one thing has never changed: our sense of humor.

I hear a helicopter above me. It’s moving farther away and I have no way of reaching it, keeping it from flying. My ears love this sound. This freedom. This intoxication of escaping…
Blue bird is yet waiting…waiting for that moment to come, the moment of departure to wherever her wings can take her…