четверг, 18 августа 2011 г.
Several miles from that village in the brick-red sand of the prairie there was a sacred place of its people. It was a kind of a circle shaped battle field, but only for two people. You could take part in the contest only if you were emotionally and spiritually mature. The point was not to win, but rather to check your strength. You could win only if you trust your opponent. The air inside of it was hot and moving. So at the same time the contestants had to struggle with the unbearable heat. Secondly, to enter the field, you would need to take your mask away, otherwise your mask would be competing against you. To some people mask grew very closely and they had to tear it with the skin. When the rivals clutched in the meditative battle, they looked like two lions. The battle could last for several days. If someone lost, he suffered great physical damage. The sand on the field was red also from the blood spilt during such battles.
понедельник, 1 августа 2011 г.
At the same village there lived another personage. He had a big oval head of a white colour and his face was one-sided. He was vey thin. He lived remotely from the other village dwellers. His little house was on a hill. Once or twice a week in the evening he would come out and write under a tree that grew beside the house. His stories were very simple and not original at all. That was a subject of an frustration. Why couldn't he write something great, he thought to himself very often. He was very well-read, and he respected the famous writers and couldn't stand the mediocre ones. But something kept him from writing like Shakespear or Kafka. Was it the vanity of life? He didn't know. Nevertheless, once in a while he would come out into the fresh air and compose a line or two untill the moon came out.