Sofija Novakovic

“I've never been lonely. I've been in a room -- I've felt suicidal. I've been depressed. I've felt awful -- awful beyond all -- but I never felt that one other person could enter that room and cure what was bothering me...or that any number of people could enter that room. In other words, loneliness is something I've never been bothered with because I've always had this terrible itch for solitude. It's being at a party, or at a stadium full of people cheering for something, that I might feel loneliness. I'll quote Ibsen, "The strongest men are the most alone." I've never thought, "Well, some beautiful blonde will come in here and give me a fuck-job, rub my balls, and I'll feel good." No, that won't help. You know the typical crowd, "Wow, it's Friday night, what are you going to do? Just sit there?" Well, yeah. Because there's nothing out there. It's stupidity. Stupid people mingling with stupid people. Let them stupidify themselves. I've never been bothered with the need to rush out into the night. I hid in bars, because I didn't want to hide in factories. That's all. Sorry for all the millions, but I've never been lonely. I like myself. I'm the best form of entertainment I have. Let's drink more wine!”
― Charles Bukowski

“Something has happened to me, I can't doubt it any more. It came as an illness does, not like an ordinary certainty, not like anything evident. It came cunningly, little by little; I felt a little strange, a little put out, that's all. Once established it never moved, it stayed quiet, and I was able to persuade myself that nothing was the matter with me, that it was a false alarm. And now, it's blossoming.”
― Jean-Paul Sartre, Nausea

“In certain areas of my life, I actively seek out solitude. Especially for someone in my line of work, solitude is, more or less, an inevitable circumstance. Sometimes, however, this sense of isolation, like acid spilling out of a bottle, can unconsciously eat away at a person's heart and dissolve it. You could see it, too, as a kind of double-edged sword. It protects me, but at the same time steadily cuts away at me from the inside.”
― Haruki Murakami, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running

“Kad sam je drugi put video rekao sam:
"Eno Moje Poezije kako prelazi ulicu."
Obećala je da će doći ako bude lepo vreme.
Brinuo sam o vremenu, pisao svim meteorološkim stanicama.
Svim poštarima svim pesnicima a naročito sebi.
Da se kiše zadrže u zabačenim krajevima.
Bojao sam se da preko noći ne izbije rat,
Jer na svašta su spremni oni koji hoće da ometu naš sastanak
Sastanak na koji već kasni čitavu moju mladost.
Te noći sam nekoliko vekova strepeo za tu ženu
Tu ženu sa dve senke,
Od kojih je jedna mračnija i nosi moje ime.
Sad se čitav grad okreće za Mojom Poezijom
Koju sam davno sreo na ulici i pitao:
"Gospodjice osećam se kao stvar koju ste izgubili
Da nisam možda ispao iz vaše tašne?"
Ja sam njen lični pesnik kao što ona ima i lične ljubavnike.
Volim je više no što mogu da izdržim,
Više od mojih raširenih ruku,
Mojih ljubavnih ruku punih žara punih magneta i ludila.
Moj snu, kao asfalt izbušen njenim štiklama,
Noći, za mene sve duža bačena izmedju nas,
Ona mi celu krv nesrećnom ljubavlju zamenjuje.
Moje su uši pune njenog karmina,
Te providne te hladne uši to slatko u njima
Kad se kao prozori zamagle od njenog daha.
Kako je ona putovala pomerao se i centar sveta.
Pomerala se njena soba koja ne izlazi iz moje glave
Sumo vremena, sumo ničega, ljubavna sumo,
Još ne prestaje da me boli uvo
Koje mi je pre rodjenja otkinuo Van Gog
To uvo što krvari putujući u ljubavnim kovertama.
U staklenu zoru palu u prašinu,
Plivao sam što dalje ka pustim mestima da bih slobodno jaukao.
Ptico nataložena u grudima što ti ponestaje vazduha,
Radnice popodne na tudjem balkonu,
Već dvadeset godina moj pokojni otac ne popravlja telefon,
Već dvadeset godina on je mrtav bez ikakvih isprava.
O koliko ćemo užasno biti razdvojeni i paralelni,
O koliko ćemo biti sami u svojim grobovima.
Još oko nje oblećem kao noćni leptir oko sveće
I visoke prozore spuštam pred njene noge.
Moje srce me drži u zatvoru i vodi pred njenu kuću
Gde su spuštene zavese nad mojom ljubavlju.
Ta žena puna malih časovnika sa očima u mojoj glavi,
Taj andjeo, isprljan suncem list vode, list vazduha,
Ljubomorne zveri oru zemlju i same se zakopavaju.
O sunce nadjeno medju otpacima...
Zuje uporednici kao telegrafske žice,
Prevrću se golubovi kao beli plakati u vazduhu,
I mrtve ih krila godinama zadržavaju u visinama
Kao što mene njena obećanja održavaju u životu.
O siroče u srcu što ti brišem suze
Moja nesrećna ljubavi razmeno djubreta
Stidim se dok je ljubim kao da sam sve to izmislio.
Kuća, ništavilo na svim prozorima,
Sve je dignuto u vazduh.
Samo se još nesrećni pesnici kurvinski bave nadom.”
― Matija Bećković