A Man Spilled His Coffee and Blamed the Collapse of the West [2025]

The royal sofa is royalty stripped of its power. It sits heavy, overloaded with fake ornaments, trying to appear noble while already sagging at the joints. Its only claim to the word “royal” is the glitter of carved wood and the stiffness of velvet.

On Divar, Iran’s largest second hand marketplace, more than nine thousand of these thrones are listed for sale in Tehran alone. They multiply like unwanted memories, each one posted with the same tired promise: almost new, barely used, must go.

The irony is clear. People may still dream of kings, but they no longer dream of sitting like one. The royal sofa was never made for rest. It is an object to be endured, a performance of luxury rather than an experience of it. Even that performance has faded. Its ornate frame is too large for small apartments, its aesthetics too gaudy for contemporary taste, and its rigid structure too uncomfortable for everyday life. What remains is a heavy relic of aspiration, no longer desired yet still haunting the domestic stage.