Looking at and contemplating on abandoned buildings and deserted old mansions, I become lost in my thoughts, imagining the lives of the people who lived in them

the joys and sorrows these structures shared with the residents, and the splendid days and nights that they accommodated.

These blurry thoughts, that how people of the past lived a life of grandiose in these old buildings, give them an additional sense of glory

it feels that these lives still continue to exist in them, with all of their delights and regrets.

Moreover, the buildings, like the people who live inside them, seem to be longing for their eventful pasts

a time full of presence and life. The buildings look unto the past, missing the people who once occupied them.

I think I have lived many times. For this reason, the photos in the family albums are a nostalgic way for me to find myself. And there are those old, big houses here in Tehran. For many years they are already abandoned, uninhabited and devastated. Surrounded by the everyday bustle of the city, they stand here as silent eyewitnesses and eyewitnesses to a past everyday life that has long passed. These are places full of history and stories. These places of nostalgia have mesmerized me. If you listen carefully, then these old houses can tell a lot, about their everyday life earlier: at that time, when all the rooms were alive, when the inhabitants there led a well glamorous life. How did people live in those houses then? Were you happier? How did the children spend their childhood there?

I have been here continually for years, my relief, etched onto the dignified, enduring walls, and windows that are the portals of mercy and forgiveness.

Each recess of mine the consequence of silent patience and the account of progress & loss.

I protested not once, while being devout to my cause. What was shaped is a bright flame called love, and this flicker began with every nail struck into my structure, and pressed through into my walls.

I have been obscured in the whitewash of time.

My frame has the odor of dank, the smell of age. My windows no longer catch light, my walls are foundation weary.

None wished to reside in me any longer. None believed that I am secluded, enduring the sluggish demise of mankind. They have forsaken and forgotten me.

Now, I am abandoned and isolated, and only know that the past connections are permanent.

Perhaps my doors will be closed for many a century, my walls will become crooked, but can we leave a house unoccupied forever?

Sohrab Ahmadi