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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 63 | volume XI | November-December, 2008



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                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 63November-December, 2008
Prose

Awakening

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p. 1
Aleksandar Lazov

The warrior admitted… Was it a defeat? No, it was not. A victory? No, it was not. The admitting resulted from the awakening. Being forgotten even by himself, he was incapable of getting strength to take a single breath, a common one, a painful one, the sole purpose of which would be to remind him how disfigured he was. Being thrown away in the canyons of the cursed soulless creatures, he had been waiting for the moment when his was to be smashed by his own honesty.
    The tears dried up, the wounds were emotional signs of existence, the silence was springing out from the soul. But he was forceless. He didn't want to, he didn't have to. He chose his own destruction… Even, he, the warrior himself didn't know where he arrived, where the borders of death were, and where the small path of patches towards darkness was.
    From afar, now and then, he was hearing some words outspoken, some deeds unworthy, a sheer revelation of the stigma, and all of them were hunting to find him somewhere in the mountain ridges. He was running away in the caves of inconsistent fires, he was ceasing even the moment of the thought itself for the very purpose of not being seen, revealed, and consequently desired – by the sacrificial altar. By the pain whose subject he had been to, for millenniums.
    The days passed by, years, eras, and what the warrior was doing was cherishing his thought. It was his thought, pure and lavish one. He neither wanted a day to rise, nor a night to fall down, he didn't want to wait, to expect nor did he want to search and to beg. The only thing he wanted was a thought; a thought that would possess him… the one that would never give him away.
    He recalls that it was a day. It was one of those ordinary days, not a special one for him. He raised his eyes towards the sky; it was a crystal clear sky, just like his soul. He tried to say something, but at the last moment he was prevented from doing so… Out of the steeple heights, right in front of his legs there came a prayer-book, with ornaments he had never seen so far. With a burdened thought and even heavier steps, he settled himself next to the prayer-book, meanwhile being afraid of the light of






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