Sunday, 17 May 2015

Kvasac za mušku sujetu

Zaustavite satove, isključite telefon. 
Bio si moj Sever i moj Jug, moj Istok i Zapad, 
Moj radni dan i nedeljni odmor, 

Moje podne i ponoć, moja pesma i moj govor.... 
O, kako greših misleći da naša ljubav nema ponor.
Ponekad, setim te se, 
a nešto toplo zasija u duši 

kao od dobre stare pesme 
što se slučajno zapevuši.....

I will cross the ocean for you.....

I wasn't looking for it, but some how it came, and found me. 
Before I had a chance to react, it wrapped it's warmth around me. 
Like a thief in the night, it has come and gone. 
I have nothing, but that vision to reflect upon. 
Until chance comes again, I'll let my thoughts dance upon the wind. 
All day long, in my mind, I walk love's lonely street. 
Like a tired man that longs to sit, but just can't find a seat. 
Then, there it was again, up ahead, to light my way. 
Only to vanish once more, just like all my yesterdays. 
Until chance comes again, I'll let my thoughts dance upon the wind. 
I don't know where I'm going, and where I've been isn't much to speak of. 
I just know my heart is always showing, leading me to some far off love. 
Just when I give up the fight. 
Here it comes to make the bad things good, and the wrong things right. 
Only to leave me lost and lonely again. 
Drifting away as my thoughts dance upon the wind.... 

Sunday, 3 May 2015

Is melancholy substitutes for griefs?

When we cannot be delivered from ourselves, we delight in devouring ourselves. In vain we call upon the Lord of Shades, the bestower of a precise curse: we are invalids without disease, and reprobates without vices. Melancholy is the dream state of egoism: no longer any object outside oneself, no reason for hate or love, but that same fall into a languid mud, that same circling of the damned without a hell, those same reiterations of a zeal to perish.... 
Whereas sadness is content
with a circumstantial context, melancholy requires a debauch of space, an infinite landscape in order to spread out its sullen and vaporous grace, its shapeless evil, which, fearing to recover, dreads any limit to its dissolution and its undulation. It expands strangest flower of self-love among the
poisons from which it extracts its vital juices and the vigor of all its failures. Feeding on what corrupts it, melancholy hides, under its melodious name, Self-Commiseration and the Pride of Defeat.

Sunday, 26 April 2015

Samo u praskozorje i predvečerje zraci padaju u pravcu srca...

Postoji čitava skala melanholičnosti: počinje osmehom i pejzažom, a završava se prizvukom razbijenog zvona u duši...
Postanak je samo kosmički jecaj, mi smo rane same prirode, a Bog je Neverni Toma...
Kada nosite previše muzike u sebi i priroda peva. A ako još i Bog umeša svoj glas, ko će znati da li on odlazi iz prirode ili srca?!
Slušam tišinu i ne mogu da ugušim svoj glas: sve je okončano. Ima reči sa kojima je počeo svet, jer im samo tišina predhodi...

Friday, 17 April 2015

Nuestras vidas son los ríos que van a dar a la mar,que ès el morir

Los encuentros entre los seres humanos a menudo lo veo así son como el cruzarse de trenes que pasan a toda velocidad en la profundidad de la noche. Son fugaces, apresuradas las miradas con las que intentamos ver a los otros, sentados detrás de los vidrios opacos a la luz crepuscular, que desapare-cen de nuestra vista antes de que podamos distinguirlos. 
Cada mirada del otro, cada intercambio de miradas, ¿no es como un brevísimo, fantasmagórico encuentro de miradas entre viajeros que se cruzan, ensordecidos por la velocidad impensable y el golpe del viento que hace temblar y resonar todo? ¿No se deslizan nuestras miradas sin detenerse sobre el otro, como en un veloz encuentro nocturno, dejándonos atrás sin otra cosa más que conjeturas, pensamientos fragmentarios, presuntas descripciones? ¿No es verdad acaso que no son los seres humanos quienes se encuentran, sino las sombras que proyectan sus propias representaciones?
La distancia que nos separa de los otros se vuelve aún mayor cuando cobramos conciencia de la diferencia entre la percepción que tienen los otros de nuestra forma exterior y la percepción que logramos a través de nuestros propios ojos. No miramos a los seres humanos como miramos las casas, los árboles o las estrellas. Miramos a los seres humanos con la expectativa de poder enfrentarnos a ellos de determinada manera y así hacerlos parte de nuestro propio ser íntimo. Nuestra imaginación los recorta de manera tal de poder adaptarlos a nuestros deseos y expectativas, pero también confirmar en ellos los miedos y prejuicios propios. Nunca llegamos, seguros y libres de prejuicios, a la forma externa de otro. Nuestra mirada se desvía, se enturbia, porque intervienen los deseos y los fantasmas que nos convierten en quienes somos, seres especiales e inconfundibles.
¿Es el alma un espacio de hechos reales? ¿O lo que suponemos hechos reales no son más que las sombras engañosas de nuestras historias?

Thursday, 9 April 2015

"Talking" with God

You can never be alone in this world, because this world is not alone. Some days pass such that in them, apparently, nothing happens.The routines of the soul and body, the daily and nightly "reflexive choruses" the humming or snoring of the internal "substations" of apathy. Some days, however, are such that they don't pass. 
My native country doesn't exist anymore. However, at the time I lived a life rich in many areas, but I didn't go to church. I didn't read any religious or spiritual books, nor did I pray to God. Being raised in a communist country where according to the dictated general views only old and backward people where still holding to religion. I never had any experience with neither religion or church. As a child I was not baptized. 
Churches and monasteries were to be visited only as historical sites, not places of worship. Who was going to pray in church when we studied Marxism in school and were taught that "religion was the opium of the masses"?!
That day in the morning I went to work taught my classes attended a contentious faculty meeting and come back home. As I was walking I thought about God's existence. I sat on the lowest stone step with the sandy beach. Then inexplicably for the first time in my life, I wanted to have some "direct contact" with God.
"God, please give me a sign". For some reason, I thought that a sign would come to me from the gulls above that a bird would fly over my head, or come close to me, but that didn't happen. I looked at the waves dancing before my eyes. I thought that maybe they would either rise or make some special sound but didn't happen either. Nothing extraordinary came from the gulls or from the water.
 When it didn't come, with seadness and disappointment I looked down, then next to my right foot, I saw a small stone. You know what was on the stone? Inscribed on its surface, there is a letter and it is A. 
I got up and started walkin toward home, knowing that I was holding a precious possession. And the elation I felt! It seemed as if I was walking on air, not touching the ground. I didn't immediately start analyzing the sign. I just know that I was given one. The letter - it is an initual of my name. Was the message that God is in us, that I need not look outside, but in my soul?
I thinking about how I could best share my "experiences" through writing, and then I realized that all of this evolved over a long period of time and that I need to let it flow at its own peace....