Diamond in the Rock

To pack the entire world in only one suitcase, and not just any one, the old one, the one that’s constantly been filled and emptied out of books, faces, music and silence, it means to constantly repack the poems of Blaze Koneski, the bottle of “T’ga za Jug”, “Leb i Sol” CD and every bit of that wordy silence that is left to be the last in the suitcase, as if it was hope, as if it was me… And just like in a Balkan joke, that suitcase gets mistaken for somebody else’s in which apart from the nej and the halvah, the silence is left to be the last, just as well, the hope from which the next journey begins or ends.
Half awoken at some new train station, resembling the scene in Three Colours: White by Krzysztof Kieslowski, I meet my fellow-traveler, who in the very same labyrinth searches for his own center of balance, the thread of Ariadne, or perhaps Ariadne herself, to call me his. His suitcase - old as well. It contains the times even when there wasn’t time, the advocates of words, and the advocates for love, the oppression and construction.