I am Karen Antashyan, I am 36 years old, I live in Yerevan with my wife and two sons. From my small balcony on the 13th floor, where I grow 19 bonsai trees, only a part of Ararat is visible, which annoys me all the time and leads to different philosophical conclusions about the imperfection of being.
From the age of 15 I have been writing poetry, but I’m not completely sure why – but for such a sloth like me, this is a very worthy format for feeding the myth of self-worth. At my age, the average Cro-Magnon man worthily died on the hunt, but in search of overcoming boredom I already managed to write three books of poetry and this year I am going to publish another one. The book is not only an occasion to remind yourself, but also an occasion to talk to yourself with one question – who are you now and who are not? This is an excuse and annulment of the past.
I used to find poetry everywhere: in minibuses, in taxis, in a booze, in unemployment, in beautiful, in ordinary, in vulgar jokes, in black and white dreams, in ancient spells, but now the only poetic thing that really touches me is questions my children. For example, they may ask: Where does the new day come from? Is there a constellation of underpants? Why is the sea not absorbed? Mom, why is your hair the color of the sun and the soil?
It is difficult to say that I am a poet, or an entrepreneur, or a dad, or an eco-activist, or a beginner bonsai artist, since for more than half of my earthly day I have been sitting on Facebook publishing clever thoughts about how others should live correctly and comment on the current geopolitical situation in the world.
