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Ana

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“Da li je moguća ikakva veza između čovijeka i svijeta osim moranja? Ja ne biram ono što imam. Ne biram, u stvari, ništa, ni rađanje, ni porodicu, ni ime, ni grad, ni kraj, ni narod, sve mi je nametnuto. Još je čudnije što moranje pretvaram u ljubav. Jer, nešto mora biti moje, zato što je sve tuđe, i prisvajam ulicu, grad, kraj, nebo koje gledam nad sobom od djetinjstva. Zbog straha od praznine, od svijeta bez mene. Ja ga otimam, ja mu se namećem, a mojoj ulici je svejedno, i nebu nad mnom je svejedno, ali neću da znam za to svejedno, dajem im svoje osećanje, udahnjujem im svoju ljubav, da mi je vrate.”
― Meša Selimović, The Fortress

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“Yet you could feel a vibration in the air, a sense of hastening. It had started with the moon, inaccessible poem that it was. Now men had walked upon it, rubber treads on a pearl of the gods. Perhaps it was an awareness of time passing, the last summer of the decade. Sometimes I just wanted to raise my hands and stop. But stop what? Maybe just growing up.”
― Patti Smith, Just Kids

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“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”
― Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

tags: life-choices-fig-trees

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