By Yash Seyedbagheri
Cynicism never abandons you. It’s easy to laugh at smiles and contemplate what pills induce jocundity. It’s even easier to laugh at Mercedes and BMWs, imagine that some so-called family man is compensating for extramarital affairs. He doesn’t know his kids’ favorite bands or wife’s worst days.
It’s very easy to dissect “Leave It To Beaver” reruns. Ward’s beating Wally and Beaver off-screen. June plans to abandon them, plans disguised within starched smiles and nicknames. Parents always do.
At dusk, I absorb long bursts of tangerine, pale blue, and lavender. I almost smile. But there are layers beneath clouds too.
Yash Seyedbagheri writes “to dissect and study human foibles, and to haunt himself.”