There is a heavy black sticky ball stuck in my throat. As a child, I bought myself star-shaped earrings, but I have never put them on. Maybe because I was not a child, not yet a young woman, and thought they were ill-suited to my age. I wished I could squeeze in the sticky ball from my throat into those earrings, I wished I could make it disappear as easily as blowing away a pile of dust. I have never put the earrings on. The stars were left forgotten in a small hackneyed dressing case and have never seen the sky. The ball is sticky and can not be blown away like a pile of dust. They were never given the chance to shine because I have never acknowledged my own darkness. The ball is a heavy slow substance which distracts the air supply and strengthens the salty water outflow. They will never shine, because the dressing case can not be opened. Because they are ill-suited to my age. Because they are no more than ordinary small childish rusting-metal earrings. Because they are no stars at all. One can forget about the ball. Anyhow, it can not be spat out. The lack of air can only cause an insignificant vertigo cured by sleep. Only the powerful scissors can opposite the stubborn zipper. Inside, there is only one star, and there is not enough ear-piercing for the rusting-metal earrings to be squeezed in. The throat is slowly liberating itself from the sticky ball. The ball, unable to be spat out, is moving backwards. A fresh new burn can be vividly seen on the hand that smashed the star-shaped earring.

Translated by: Elena Prendžova

2018-08-21T17:22:55+00:00 December 21st, 2009|Categories: Prose, Literature, Blesok no. 69|0 Comments