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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 03 | volume I | June-July, 1998



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                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 03June-July, 1998
Prose

My Straw

/4
p. 1
Petar Volnarovski

– What I have to do? Help me… You should know better… – I speak, and every single sentence is new, and yet worn out Dйjа vu: I know the words even before they reach my conscience mind. I just don’t know whether the answers are coming first – from inside, or outside of my ear. Although that’s pointless – any more. Meaningless is my middle name now, since a long time ago…
    – You know, I’m not going to quit. – who ever said that the meaning is necessary? I would laugh at his face, if I knew him. For a Homo Sapiens, may be. To bad that such a thing doesn’t exist. And I would laugh at its face also; if such a thing exists.
    ‘Cause, at least I taught my tears to shed inside. Towards a within.

* * *

Silence.
    The shadows, again, are writing my attempts on the ceiling; like when a convict marking the days in his cell with a dry spittle to a mortar on the wall. Even that lasts longer than any talk I make to her.
    Another night. Another failure. In the night, anything I may say, vanishes into the dark. In that beautiful, all-spread darkness, which was the beginning, and will be the end. Just take out the light; put out the Sun; then, only darkness remains… It isn’t a colour. It’s an absence of colour… It’s an existence by its own. Sufficient for itself.
    At the end, everything comes to it… Black. That’s why I love that colour. Even more than I love Her.
    And if She come alive, maybe I’ll reconsider.

* * *

– Opening your eyes isn’t enough to rouse from the dead… – I fondle her with a hand with fire burning within; fire to weak for the ice I want to melt with it. – You must get out of that coffin so cosy that you are settled in. Think. Feel, and – live.
    My foolishly-stupid look instantly melts, meeting hers, hidden under her fallen brows.
    – I do torment you, I know… – I apologize, though I don’t know why.
    Again, my lighter falls down – three times in a row – until I succeed to light my cigarette. That always reminds me of the uselessness of such escapes from reality in sequels.
    Rescue by installments…
    She won’t come out of that coffin she’s in. She won’t come among the Living…
    – Is that it? Is it – all what you have to






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