The victory of my generation

I love you, your paranoia, and your (un)well mannered ways. My love.

I feel I have to be sacrificed. I should find a way to tell you everything, in one scene, in one photo, in one sky scraping move of my two fingers that show the victory of my generation.
I have to show you everything. I have to tell you about the pain we endure in this masochistic nightmare that keeps repeating itself. They are coming. Yousef told me about the coup. Soldiers are walking with their metal boots on the streets of Tehran. For the first time in my life, I was going to vote, and I believed in my democratic rights. I believed in the bright future. We went to San Francisco, humming the songs that carried the self-created message of hope. I felt like I was in an automaton. My mere existence, the wretched illusion, had a meaning now. I had a great image for tomorrow, and the children of Iran. I could not vote. We had to wait for a few hours for a plane that would bring the ballots.

You can not vote, we have run out of...ballots.

K. checked the BBC page on his cellphone.
"It says...It...I...can not..."
- Tell me. It can not be possible.
- He is ahead. 64 percents
- No. It is not possible.
We went to K's place. I sat on the sofa, anxiously reading headlines, calling people, and watching BBC Persian. I even saw my friends on BBC's "Your Word" section. They were calling from Europe, and sending their messages and videos using their webcam. At 3 PM, I saw G. on TV, she almost could not speak. I could feel the lump in her throat:
I detest bullets, I detest violence. I had a hope for the future, but today, democracy has failed.

I have to go, we have to go take our votes back. I will look at these photos later. I wish you were here.

Tehran is beautiful these days. Drawned in the blood of the innocent, pain, and screams. But I can see the future, I am as hopeful as I was on the day of election. More hurt and frustrated, more fierce, but I know we have a path. A painful one. I can feel the immense worries in my friends' eyes. I can see the tears flowing down our faces when we see videos of demonstrations, but I know we will be victorious. I feel I have to be sacrificed. I should find a way to tell you everything, in one scene, in one photo, in one sky scraping move of my two fingers that show the victory of my generation.

I love you, your paranoia, and your (un)well mannered ways. My love.
-The way I feel about you is beyond words. Take care.