Our Lives

We live such a hypocritical life these days. We write poetry, we draw paintings of nature, people, objects, the good and the bad. We write novels and make memories and write about it, them and dream of an idealistic expectation of how life is supposed to be, of how different our lives would be if we were not who we are today  and write about those too.

We make art. We talk about sex, intimacy, love, hatred, jealousy, friendship, failed relationships, dream men and dream women, motherhood. We criticise capitalism, the government, the law. We make revolutions to overthrow a system that will be too soon replaced by another-then we work on criticising that too. We complain about the flaws in education, the rising prices of basic necessities. Yet we still work to maintain this complex hierarchical structure.

We make art to realize the repressed true ‘us’.

Somewhere, anywhere, there’s a little boy who wants to be a writer, a traveler, an adventurer yet he ends up at 30 working as a sales manager. Somewhere, anywhere there’s a girl who wants to save little sick children yet ends up at 23 bleaching the blonde hair of a billionaire’s wife.

I wish, oh how I wish that one day I wake up to a world full of expressive honest artists following a passion instead of clean-cut financiers dressed up in fancy suits just to impress. Oh imagine how different our existence would be. We live in a beautiful world that we exploit more than we relish its magnificence.

– Mona Heidar

Old Mirror Standing Against Wall