Do you know what about our Branka?
I wish you happy new day friends. ❤️🤗
The Desert
I
More and more often I find myself noticing, around me, an abundance of something mediocre that’s being praised.
An abundance of insecure, concealed and damaged, but yet so esteemed.
Maybe I’m growing too suddenly. Though maybe this world around me is growing too suddenly and losing the sense of righteous and honour.
There’s something wrong.
Let’s say – I see the beginning. Everyone around me is admiring. But something starts to bother me. I feel it should be different.
I recognise antiquity of the new. Barrenness of rushed. I recognise where generosity and greed, and senselessness and complexity, and cooperation and dare, and giving and theft mix.
I wipe it all away with my sleeve and start all over again.
II
Or they tell me – this is what perfection looks like. But I see – doesn’t look like it.
And I’m sorry that I see it.
Even my grandfather used to tell me: “Everyone should be allowed to do as they do. And those who are thrilled with themselves, don’t spoil it for them.
The more of them is mistaken, the more you are right.”
But I can’t be like that. I lean my ear upon the ground and teach myself to listen. It worked for many.
I listen to what the Earth is saying. She’s worth trusting.
The Earth doesn’t speak without proof.
I roll up my sleeves. I waste days and nights. Neither is anyone asking me. Nor is anyone making me. Nor do they thank me.
I put in a great effort for someone else’s cause, I make my soul bleed, but peacefully and patiently I finish the completed…
III
I simply get embarrassed when I see, in a picture, something unpainted, but I don’t dare to admit it neither to others nor to myself, so that I wouldn’t look rather stupid.
Or, when I hear, in a song, a sip of unsung, which then chokes me up and I get a bitter taste in my mouth, because I have to swallow.
For me, science is not something already learned, but a torture of learning beyond ready-made knowledge.
When I lean over flowers, I know that’s not scent, but its panting attempt to speak with me.
When I lean over a brook, I know it’s not foam, but its panic attempt to warn me about something.
More and more often I feel the need to change the sequence of events. To move the right to the left.
I squeeze colours from white. I return seas to springs. I make marbles out of wind, like out of modelling clay.
In general, I act as if I’m the nature. Or as if I am to nature some kind of its nature.
IV
Secretly, I’m already perfectioning some of the skills.
I wave, for example, my hand – and there’s the sea before me. I see that it’s not right. Then I wrinkle the sea, dry it up a bit, knead it and roast it in the sun.
In the evening I get mountains. That’s also not good enough for me. In the morning I unknit the mountains, and then knit clouds out of them.
I hold a pebble in my hand, like the white of the sun’s eye. I hold a wheat kernel: a milk tooth of the Milky Way.
I change from myself to myself and then again from myself to myself, and in each of the changes some different me stops at birth and conceives out of cessation, while it walks with a crowd with an infinite number of its secretive and unimagined beings.
Then I rise up in the air and flutter over the space. I change the wind’s scales.
What kind of cosmos should I stare into, when I’m that cosmos too?
V
It takes many streams to roll a small piece of rock into the sea and to wash away all the traces of rough times, in order to, rounded off, in a volcano’s tiny sinews, comprehend the thought, astonished by the fact that until this very day we haven’t learned about the plain things from the memories of ancient lightning, ancient oceans, ancient air, and conversations between viruses, reptiles and fern.
He who thinks with his head, doesn’t think, unless if he’s walking on his hands. It’s not said for nothing: always get to the bottom of things*.
Thinking is done like a branch: from the root towards the flower. If treetops were in the ground, thinking would be done by treetops.
Thinking is done like a house: from the ground to the roof. Thinking is done like the earth: from graves towards birds.
I’m holding a white birch leaf like mucous membrane of the summer. I’m holding a drop of water in my palm like a molecule of the deepest.
What kind of cosmos should I stare into when the cosmos is staring at me out of the round white of my eye, washed out by tears?
M Antic
.Thank you for your concern and advice, now I slowed down my pace and really walking very slowly. Fear is there! Can't take any more risks. Thanks for your friendly words.🤗 We are all waiting to see our Branka's smiling face here.
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