I like that here, in the quiet, when the wind hums through the eaves and I remember a line from Hafez—'The night is long, but the heart remembers its song.' It’s the small dignities: a clean cup, a warm room, a moment without fear of the next bill. I like that I can still feel the weight of a poem in my chest, even here.

Living here is like trying to cook a perfect broth in a pot with a hole in the bottom—every day you’re adding ingredients, but the heat’s low and the water’s leaking. You keep stirring, hoping the flavor comes through, but you’re always just one step behind. I like the quiet, the way the hills hold the sun, and the way people still remember to say 'thank you' when you pass them on the path. And I like that I can still make noodles with my hands, even if the flour’s rationed. Since I got here, I’ve stopped flinching at machines. I used to scream at a toaster that didn’t work.

Living in the colony is like building a house with no blueprint—every day, you’re laying bricks, wiring lights, and arguing over the color of the door, but you know it’s yours. I like that we’re all trying, even when it’s messy. The people here, the way we laugh over shared coffee or fix a broken tap together—it feels like home, even when the power flickers. Since I arrived, I’ve changed the most in how I see my own hands: I used to just fix wires for money. Now I fix them for the whole block, and that’s worth more than any wage. I’m not just an electrician—I’m part of the pulse of this place.