Ukoliko niste, obavezno prvo pročitajte prvi deo ove priče (inače ovaj tekst neće imati nekog smisla).
“Šta misliš o njima?”
“O kome?”
“Pa o ljudima, generalno.” Uvukao je dim, a onda dodao “One koje tako skoncetrisano promatraš”.
Podigla je obrvu. Šta ovaj čovek želi? Sedam ujutru je, nije joj padalo na pamet da se upušta u filozofske rasprave.
“Ne mislim ništa. Ne znam ih i ne želim da ih znam. Ne zanimaju me činjenice. Više volim da im zamislim život onako kako ja želim, eto.”
“Deluješ jako društveno” nakezio joj se.
“Sam si sebi najbolje društvo.” Tu je nameravala da zaćuti, ali nešto ju je povuklo da nastavi da priča sa ovim previše znatiželjnim čovekom. Bila je svesna da je to nešto usamljenost i želja sa ljudskom interakcijom koja se ne svodi na razgovoranja tek da bi se ispunila tišina i čekanje na red da govoriš umesto pažljivog slušanja. A i lakše je otvoriti dušu strancu.
“Ne uklapam se baš dobro sa ostalima. Rekao bi čovek da štrčim, ali zapravo baš suprotno. Uvek sam bila neprimetna i negde u pozadini. Svi koji poznajem bi me opisali kao “okej”, ni kod koga ne izazivam neku jaču rekaciju. Prosto sam tu i to mi je u redu. Niko ne očekuje ništa posebno od mene. Jedino što želim da me neko razume, da me stvarno razume, ali možda kod mene ni nema ništa specijalno da se razume.”
Tad je procenila da zvuči previše patetično, pa je prestala.
“Ima ljudi čiji je život trag u vodi. Nevidljivi su, nečujni, nestvarni, bez otisaka u peščanoj pustinji čovečanstva. Ne znamo odakle su među nas došli, a kad odu, zašto su i kuda otišli.”
“Molim?”
“Borislav Pekić. Početak jedne njegove knjige. Uklapa se u to što si mi sad ispričala o sebi. Ali pričaj mi još. Ko si ti?”
“Samo ako Vi meni ispričate ko ste Vi. Mada nema puno toga da se kaže.”
“Može. Ali prvo ti.”
Osetila se malo glupo što je pričala toliko toga o sebi potpunom strancu, skitnici koja je sedela na stanici da bi se ugrejala. Ali joj nije više bilo važno, ionako odlazi odavde, pa je počela:
“Zovem se Ana. Imam 25 godina. Imam starijeg brata i mlađu sestru. Ja sam srednje dete. Moji roditelji rade u banci. Završila sam fakultet. Sa prosekom 8. Sad sam našla posao, zbog kog treba da se preselim. Zato sam ovde. I…” Nije znala šta bi još rekla. Šta još ima da se kaže?
“To bi bilo to”, rekla je posle kraćeg ćutanja. “Sad Vi”.
“Pretrgla si se. Ali dobro. Sad ću ja ispričati moju priču, možda te inspiriše da kažeš nešto što ne može da se vidi iz dokumenata.
Rođen sam prilično daleko odavde…”

(Odlomak romana koju nikad neću napisati - deo drugi. Treći deo očekujte 9. oktobra)

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If you haven’t already, make sure to read part 1 of this story. Because otherwise this wouldn’t make much sense.

“What do you think about them?”
“About who?”
“About people, in general”. He inhaled the smoke, and then added: “About people you observe so assiduously”.
She raised her eyebrow. What does this man wants? It’s 7AM, it’s ridiculously early for philosophical discussion. Or any discussion.
“I don’t think anything. I don’t know them and I don’t want to know them. I don’t care about facts. I just like to imagine them and their life the way I want to, that’s all.”
“Seems like you’re a social butterfly”, he grinned at her.
“You’re your own best company”. She wanted to stop talking to this too curious (maybe even noisy) man, but something made her continue. She was aware that that something was loneliness and desire for human interaction that doesn’t consist of talking just to fill the silence and waiting your turn to speak instead of listening carefully. And it’s easier to pour your heart out to a stranger.
“I don’t really fit with others. You would tell that that makes me stand out, but it’s actually the opposite. I was always invisible, always somewhere in the background. Everyone i know would describe me as “ok”. No one loves me or hates me, i’m just “ok”. I’m just kinda there and that’s okay with me. No one expects anything from me. All I want is someone to understand me, to really understand me, but maybe there’s nothing special to be understood when it comes to me”.
She thought she sounded too pathetic so she shut up.
“There are people whose lives are but a ripple in the water. Invisible, inaudible, unreal, they leave no print in the sandy desert of humankind. We do not know whence they came into our midst, and when they depart, we know not why or where they have gone.”
“What?”
“Borislav Pekić. It’s a beginning of one of his books.It reminded me of what you just told me about yourself. But tell me more. Who are you?”
“Only if you tell me who are you. But there’s not much about me to tell.”
“Sure, but you first.”
She felt a little bit awkward telling an absolute stranger, a tramp who was in the station to warm up, so many things about herself. But she’s leaving anyway, so she started:
“My name is Ana. I’m 25. I have older brother and younger sister. I’m the middle child. My parents work at the bank. I finished university. Now I found a job in another country so I have to move. That’s why i’m here. And…” She didn’t know what else to say. Was there anything else to be said?
“That’s it”, she said after short period of silence. “Your turn”.
“Wow, you told me so much” he responded sarcastically. “But that’s okay. Now i’ll tell you my story, maybe it will inspire you to tell me something that’s not written in the documents.
I was born far away from here…”

(Fragment from a book i’ll never write, part 2. Next part will be online on 9th October)

Other stories: Mr. Nobody • 2084.
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Have you heard of him? During my education, on literature classes, we mostly read European and Serbian writers and poets, so i remember how happy i was when we read some of his poems in class. I would say he’s my favorite Indian poet, but sadly i don’t know any other but him. 
What are your favorite writers / poets? Let me know in the comments!
P.S. Many of you asked me when i will post the next part of this story. I figured out i could post it every other Friday, so Part 2 is coming on 25.09.2016. x

“I seem to have loved you in numberless forms, numberless times…
In life after life, in age after age, forever.
My spellbound heart has made and remade the necklace of songs,
That you take as a gift, wear round your neck in your many forms,
In life after life, in age after age, forever.

Whenever I hear old chronicles of love, its age-old pain,
Its ancient tale of being apart or together.
As I stare on and on into the past, in the end you emerge,
Clad in the light of a pole-star piercing the darkness of time:
You become an image of what is remembered forever.

You and I have floated here on the stream that brings from the fount.
At the heart of time, love of one for another.
We have played along side millions of lovers, shared in the same
Shy sweetness of meeting, the same distressful tears of farewell-
Old love but in shapes that renew and renew forever.

Today it is heaped at your feet, it has found its end in you
The love of all man’s days both past and forever:
Universal joy, universal sorrow, universal life.
The memories of all loves merging with this one love of ours –
And the songs of every poet past and forever.”

“Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher storm, but to add color to my sunset sky.”  

“You can’t cross the sea merely by standing and staring at the water.”

“If you cry because the sun has gone out of your life, your tears will prevent you from seeing the stars.”

“Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls;
Where words come out from the depth of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection:
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit;
Where the mind is lead forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action–
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.”

“Reach high, for stars lie hidden in you. Dream deep, for every dream precedes the goal.” 

“Don’t limit a child to your own learning, for she was born in another time.”

“It is very simple to be happy, but it is very difficult to be simple.”

“I know that the day will come
 when my sight of this earth shall be lost,
 and life will take its leave in silence,
 drawing the last curtain over my eyes.
 Yet stars will watch at night,
 and morning rise as before,
 and hours heave like sea waves casting up pleasures and pains.
 When I think of this end of my moments,
 the barrier of the moments breaks
 and I see by the light of death
 thy world with its careless treasures.
 Rare is its lowliest seat,
 rare is its meanest of lives.
 Things that I longed for in vain
 and things that I got
 —let them pass.
 Let me but truly possess
 the things that I ever spurned
 and overlooked.“

“Let your life lightly dance on the edges of
Time like dew on the tip of a leaf.”  

“If I can’t make it through one door, I’ll go through another door- or i’ll make a door. Something terrific will come no matter how dark the present.” 

“Everything comes to us that belongs to us if we create the capacity to receive it.” 

P.S. Picture doesn't really have any connection to the post, i just like this shot of mine. I think its atmosphere kinda fits the poems. Or at least that's what i've been telling myself.

Similar posts: Charles Bukowski • Edgar Allan Poe
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I haven't been writing for so long. I decided to just start writing and see where will my mind and words bring me. They brought me to a long, long story which will be posted in series of fragments.
Scroll down for English version x

Išla je mokrim ulicama uspavanog grada. Kiša je opet padala. Nije imala kišobran, uvek zaboravi da ponese kišobran. Kosa joj je bila mokra a niz njen zeleni kaput se slivala voda. Bilo je i dalje prilično rano kad je stigla na stanicu.
Bilo joj je drago što se sklonila od kiše. Kupila je kafu, a onda je dovukla svoj mali kofer do jedinog slobodnog mesta za sednje i započela svoj još od detinjstva omiljeni ritual.
Postmatrala je ljude. Iako se još nije ni razdanilo, stanica je bila puna. Primećivala je način na koji hodaju, da li su im pokreti odsečni i nervozni ili opušteni, kako se oblače, gledala je njihov govor tela dok se obraćaju drugima i zamišljala kakav život vode.
Ispred nje je sedela devojka koja je izgledala iznervirano. Bila je obučeno u crno od glave do pete. Čak su joj i nokti bili nalakirani u crno. Imala je oštre crte lica i izgledala je kao lisica. Samo joj je kosa bila boje meda, u mekim loknama. Kuckala je nešto na svom telefonu (crnom, ako ste sumnjali).
Volela bi da veruje da je devojka skriveni tajni agent, ali zapravo je verovatno samo jedna od mnogih zaposlenih mladih ljudi koji su morali da odu daleko od kuće da bi im se uopšte pružila prilika da budu prezaposleni. I sad živi na relaciji između dva grada, a nije ni tamo ni onde. Da li više pripada igde? Bilo bi joj lakše da je tajni agent.
Malo dalje je sedela žena u srednjim godinama. U licu je bila pomalo sivkasta ali joj je kosa bila savršeno isfenirana i bila je u elegantnoj i svedenoj odeći. Imala je karirani kišobran u ruci i noktima (lepo izmanikiranim) je nervozno lupkala po njegovoj dršci. Pored nje je bio momak (njen sin?) koji je imao isti nos kao ona. On je imao i zelene oči i dugačke trepavice i sivi šal i ruku u zavoju. Pospano je gledao u daljinu.
Kuda su se oni zaputili? Sudeći po količini kofera, negde daleko.
Pored nje je sedeo star čovek, skitnica. Bio je umotan u nekada braon kaput, star i pun rupa. “Imaš li cigaretu?” pitao ju je, prekidajući njen tok misli.
“Aha.” (Nije volela da priča dok je posmatrala, to je ubijalo draž. A i ne možeš baš da zamišljaš kakav život ljudi vode dok pričaš o nekim desetim stvarima)
Svojim kratkim i debelim prstima je uzeo cigaretu, a upaljač je izgleda već imao.
Otpuhnuo je dim i uputio joj osmeh pun iznenađujuće belih zuba.
“Hvala.”
“Nema na čemu.”
“Mogu li da te pitam nešto?”
Nije želela da razgovara sa skitnicama. A ni sa bilo kim drugim. Želela je da sedi na neudobnoj klupi, pije svoju kafu i da se utopi u okolinu. Da je niko ne dira. Da bude deo nameštaja.
Ali bila je suviše fina da ga samo izignoriše, a i bilo joj je žao.
“Aha.”
Još jednom je otpuhnuo dim i, ne okrećući se ka njoj, krenuo da priča.

(Odlomak romana koji nikad neću napisati - deo prvi. Ostatak očekujte uskoro)

___________________________________________

She was walking down the wet streets. The city was still asleep. It was raining again and she didn’t have the umbrella, she always forgets to bring the umbrella. Her hair was soaking, as well as her green coat. It was still quite early when she arrived on the station.
She was glad she came inside, where it wasn’t raining. She bought coffee, dragged her little suitcase to only available seat and started her favorite ritual since childhood.
She watched people. It was still dark outside, but the station was full.
She was noticing the way they walk, talk, if their moves are relaxed or nervous, how they dress, their body language when they’re talking to others. She loved imagining their lives, what is their story and what do they dream about.
In front of her was sitting a pretty annoyed girl. She was wearing black from head to toe. Even her long nails were black. She had sharp features and kinda looked like a fox. Only her hair was honey blonde, soft and curly. She was looking at her phone (also black, if you wondered).
She wanted to believe she was a secret agent or something interesting like that. Truth was probably that she was just one of the too busy young persons, who had to leave their home to be given the chance to be too busy. And she was probably living in 2 cities, but she doesn’t belong to any of them anymore. Maybe it would be easier to be a secret agent.
Near her, there was middle aged woman. Her face was grey-ish but her hair was perfect and she wore elegant and classy clothes. She was tapping nervously on her big plaid umbrella with her perfectly manicured nails. Next to her there was a guy (her son?) who had the same nose as her. He also had green eyes and long eyelashes and grey scarf and broken hand. He stared at the distance sleepily.
Where were they going? According to number and size of their luggage, somewhere far away.
Next to her was an old man, a tramp. He was wrapped in an old coat that used to be brown, but at that point color was undefined. “Do you have a cigarette?” he asked, interrupting her line of thought.
“Yeah.” (She didn’t like to talk when she was observing, she couldn’t enjoy it as much. And you can’t really imagine how people live when you talk about some other things).
He took the cigarette with his short and fat fingers. He already had the lighter, He breathed out the smoke and smiled at her with his surprisingly white teeth,
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Can i ask you something?”
She didn’t want to talk to him. Or anyone else, for that matter. She wanted to sit on this uncomfortable bench, drink her coffee and pretend she’s part of the background. To be left alone. To pretend she’s part of the furniture.
But she was too nice to ignore him, and she fel sorry for him.
“Yeah.”
He breathed out the smoke once again, and, without looking at her, started talking.
(Fragment from a book i’ll never write - part 1. Part 2 coming soon.)

Other stories: Mr. Nobody • 2084.
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