unfinished

-please – he had said – come out at least for an hour. it is your last day.

she had calculated that if she slept on the plane, she would still have time to finish up her luggage and have a coffee with the man. therefore, here she was, nursing a hot something and kicking herself for being an obliging soul. he was once again rambling.

-so, i told her to go to hell and take her stupid gift with her.

– I thought you liked her.

-well she knew how to use her mouth, but she was really weird, you know.

she did not know but she smiled to humor him. she could never keep his dramas straight. he had so many, and they all ended up in tears.

– I just can’t understand why I can’t find anybody like you. -he said

here they go again. she had made him promise they would not speak about that, she had told him they did not fit together, she had told him they were simply friends and there was nothing else. and still he persisted.

-please- she said. – i am sure you will find somebody great for you

6 thoughts on “unfinished

  1. This is man’s story. The moment they lose someone they return to the friend, to the one that they can’t see in no other way than a friend, and persist that they have smth more. Hmm…

  2. nuk e ka megjithemend. E ka vetem perkohesisht, deri sa te gjej tjetren.

    Meshkujt qe pergojojne grate dhe/apo te dashurat e tyre, ne menyre te vecante seksualitetin e tyre, jane palo burra. Njerez qe ju mungon ndjeshmeria per tjetrin, njerez qe ju mungon etika, njerez te vegjel: Njerez qe duan vetem veten, edhe ate shume keq!

    Neser do ta bejne edhe per ty.

  3. selfie, belle, it is the beginning of a story that has been swirling in my head for a while. it just needs an ending.
    and yes, i agree with you guys, this is the story of a small man who is terribly delusional and cannot see the reality (unless it is virtual)

  4. duke pritur jam.
    an ending?

    zakonisht historia perfundon me individin qe eshte tek pika e fillimit (vetemse ne nje shkalle marrezie me siper): duke kerkuar nje femer tjeter tek e cila fillon te projektoje imazhin e vetevetes, ashtu sic ai do te deshironte te ishte. Historite e meparshme i vjell ne forme urrejtjesh, duke u perpjekur t’i shnderroje njerezit qe dikur e kane dashur, jane perkujdesur per te, ne njerez pa identitet, ne karikatura. Duke larguar cdo faj nga vetevetja, duke treguar me gisht vetem tjetrin teksa merr pozen e njeriut perfekt. Le te flasim per amnezi selektive: ku njeriu harron se cfare ka bere vete, harron maskaralliqet e veta, por kujton cdo presje te tjetrit. Shet moral dhe etike, nderkohe qe i ka perdhosur te dyja. Pa permendur perdhosjen e dashurise te cilen e shnderron ne nje akt vulgariteti.

    Historia fillon nga fillimi. Njeriu i vogel edhe pse perpiqet te reshape veteveten tek e reja, i ka hyre rruges se ligesise, e ka gelltitur ate lugen me corben e prishur, e ka prekur tundimin per te shkaterruar e urryer: gje qe do te thote rrugen per ta perseritur, per te shkuar edhe nje hap me tej e ka te hapur.

    Nese do te ishe pa kompromis me personazhin tend, personazhi duhet ta mbylle jeten i vetmuar, i rrethuar nga hije apo kocka kujtimesh qe i ka peshtyre, i hidhur farmak me veten dhe boten, me fodullekun dhe ligesine vetembrojtese ne faze kancerogjene. Nuk do kete asnje njeri qe do ta doje. Femrave qe dikur e deshen dhe nuk e kane harruar do ju dhimbset. Nene Tereza ka vdekur.

    Ne se te dhimbset personazhi, atehere coje afer nje semundje vdekjeprurese; shija e vdekjes i ben papritur njerezit tokesor, ju kujton ndjesi gati te asfiksuara: dashuria per jeten, per gjerat e rendomta dhe te vogla te saj, per kenaqesine e te prekurit te nje femre, apo ndjere eren e saj pa ndjere nevojen e disektimit te saj fiziologjik, psikologjik apo filozofik: thjesht ndjerje pa prapamendime. Pa ju dashur te genjeje, pa ju dashur te beje historira, pa ju dashur te thote nje gje teksa mendon nje tjeter, pa ju dashur te beje dicka kur nuk do te donte ta bente. Ndoshta, provon per here te pare respektin per veteveten: ashtu sic e ka bere natyra, me te gjitha difektet. Ndoshta kupton se teksa e e mendon veten si imazhi, veten e ka humbur. Lost .. ne morine e personazheve-imazhe ku projekton veteveten. Ndoshta kupton se nuk i ka dashur kurre femrat qe ju ka thene keshtu – se ka dashur imazhin e dashurise qe jua ka veshur femrave qe e kane dashur. Ose thjesht imazhin e tij ne nje skene dashurie. Ndoshta kupton se dashuria nuk eshte e vetekuptueshme, se perkujdesi nuk eshte i vetekuptueshem. Ndoshta kupton, se njeriu eshte bere per njeriun dhe cdo gje tjeter eshte nje shtojce. Se cdo perpjekje per te bere shtojcat me te rendesishme se njeriun dhe dashurine per te eshte marrezi, eshte sterilitet, eshte mohim i vetevetes. Ndoshta kupton dhe thote faleminderit qe e deshen. Ndoshta thote: me fal per perdhosjen.

    Ndoshta, kur personazhi te kete arritur kete pike, dhe ta kete rigjetur ndjenjen per dashurine, ai mund te vdese … me gjithe melodramatiken qe nje moment i tille shprese te ringjallur perpak per te vdekur pergjithmone sjell me vete.

    Ky varianti i dyte shitet me mire.

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