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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 02 | volume I | April-May, 1998



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                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 02April-May, 1998
Essays

Melancholy

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p. 1
Ana Dimiškovska - Trajanoska

Those desert spaces, the solitary squares of mind; a sharp line of arcades all around them, like the dark, shadowy fence of consciousness. Suddenly, you find yourself lost, abandoned by the world; the city of yours has gone, leaving you to its unknown face. But how can you get there, into the crystal brightness of things, their shinning innocence? Unveil the old memories hidden beneath your sleepy skin: you will reach the same infinity of the space closed in those beautiful lines, drawn by our eyes on the deep blue openness of sky. And the pain will always be there: the world will never be like that again, anchored only in the power of being seen, with clear edges in the play of light and dark, like the edges of that long street which takes you nowhere. The gates of the city are now locked; a veil of soundless sadness lies thrown over them. Now your are running through that glassy silence, followed by your own shadow and the dark, rolling circle of your life; hopelessly, in vain – it is impossible to get into the frozen picture of your city, mirrored in itself, inaccessible. But the ripple of life, unexpected, laughing, crying, is breaking through again, from the unknown landscapes behind the white columns. The inner circle of your mind regain its splendid plentitude: water fountains of beloved voices, fragrance of flowers under your steps, joyful abundance of touches, make you forget about the severe emptiness of the lines that make possible all the reaches of the visible world. Anyway, it is too late, and you know it: once touched by that strange filing – the sudden closing of your steal gates, when all the world is left outside, cut off by a simple move of the spirit – you can't find the road back. Under the stone walls of castles and citadels, in the heart of your marvelous gardens, the same picture will be buried forever: that melancholic street paved with shadows, the small square of yours, of that naked, cold marble statue – the only inhabitant between the borders of brilliant arcades, a timeless space closed in crystal ball, temple of solitude.
    Those eyes, clear and passionate, are always looking at you, from the outside; sometimes, the same glassy shine of wild loneliness comes over them, and they keep silent. Because of the secret of the small square, when they find you again, there are no questions at all.






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