From “Читање на тишината / Čitanje tišine / Reading of silence”, Blesok, 2010.
Translated from Montenegrin by A. N. Batrićević, edited by I. Isakovski
As a child I didn’t like books:
my attitude to reality was
erratic. I was nineteen when
I read Borges’s Ficciones,
and, ever since, I have been writing. Sometimes,
feverishly enthralled, and with equal passion
I note the graffiti in town passages,
or the names of firms on neon sign boards.
I’ve come close to thinking lately
that the contents of existence should be arranged so that you don’t
feel any need for the sustenance of other people.
Nothing can provoke me, while I am perceiving
simple phenomena, and while from my room
I write essays about the present.
Sometimes it happens that the Mediterranean morning
impels me to think about the living conditions
on the planet. Even when I inhale the air,
some uncertainties are left about the space which I am in.
Consequently, dreams structure the space, and I endure only
to live through words that have already been written.