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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 34 | volume VI | September-October, 2003



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                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 34September-October, 2003
Prose

Sandglass

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p. 1
Igor Isakovski

    He lied on the terrace, comfortably stretched on a soft rocking bed, and he stared at the ocean. He thought of Lautréamont, and what was so powerful inside him while he had written the inspiring pages that glorified the ocean. He could not name it. It was bad that he did not feel something gleamed inside him. Even worse was that he once had had that feeling. Strong gleaming, fire and eruptions afterwards. Now there was nothing. Now he had a house at the ocean coast and he did not have to worry about the rent and the bills. He was only supposed to think about filling in his day. In the beginning it was very easy. He started to meet the people in the village after he had stayed at home for couple of days. He liked some of them, but after a while he stopped visiting them. He felt that he had nothing to offer, that he was simply steeling from them while he listened to them talking. When he talked, he had the impression that they were expecting big thoughts out of him. Then he felt as someone who was not fully normal. When he spoke about those plain, everyday things, he felt that his words were empty and deprived of any sense. It was nice when he sat with them at some of the cafés at the coast and when they emptied their bottles. He smoked their tobacco and listened to the stories about their families, the children’s illnesses in those families, the new fishing nets that they would buy very soon, if only the fish would improve, and while they talked, he looked at their hands and their faces, at all the marks that time and ocean had left on them, and then he looked at his own hands and he was aware that they were not the hands of a fisherman. It made him feel different than them, and it pierced his insides as an old, but unhealed pain.

    Sunsets were very beautiful. The sun turned the ocean gold, as if it was paying him tribute for the work he had done during the day, and for the work he had done since he had existed. He did not know exactly what the work of the ocean was, and he thought that maybe its very existence can be called work. Still, he too existed but


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