# Kultura > Letërsia shqiptare > Krijime në gjuhë të huaja >  So, lets talk about - I

## katana

talking about I

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## drini_në_TR

I

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## katana

It had come up by the time I awoke. I ran to the front door, in my pajamas, sat in the cold, wet, stone stairs and started conversing with the sun.  For some time now, in New York, we havent seen much of the sun. It shone, yes, but not in its full power as one would expect in a Mays mornings. The sky has been threatening rain, with its massive clouds. The sun has been passively hiding behind them as if it didnt want to show itself. To me? Few rays made it through, just enough to signal the coming of daylight. 
               Today it made its first appearance in days - in its entirety. Shining, with no clouds in sight (it was later that I realized that clouds had been surrounding it all along). Does the sun, that which sees everything, have eyes? I tried to find them, but he hides them so well with those blinding rays of his, and in  them see you.  I began comforting myself that its all for the better if I didnt see what the sun has seen. He has seen too much for me to bear. The beauties of this world and the suffering of humanity and I was afraid that I would loose sight of you in light of everything else, given that I would recognize you when I saw you. 
                   Rested my head on my hand and my hand on my knee and the movement associated with speaking send synchronized vibrations throughout my body. At first I closed my eyes and just felt is warmth piercing through my pajamas and tickle my fair skin. And after I had accepted that I would never see you in him, I spoke to him. 
               Good morning, sunshine! I waited and waited and didnt get a response back. So I said in a more demanding tone: Dont you have anything for me? A message? Didnt he say anything at all? So tell me how was he looking? I worry, he picked up smoking again, you know. 
              I dont know whether the sun had nothing to say to me or just no way to say it?

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## kulla

So Im the fucking lunatic? What spin, what piece of string in what blue sky, what egg brought me to this world of indulgence I was twisting around my neck like it was an old talisman protecting me from the evils of the very same world it contained within? Where do the roots of this lunacy begin? And let me tell you: theyre nowhere else but the moon. Yes, the moon and the stars telling each-other stories, one of which managed to reach my ears from the mouth of humans and after it opened a little hole in that part of my existence not so very clear to me, it poured in it something we call soul. Sometimes they speak with their arse also, (the humans, that is) and to tell you the truth, -or rather to impose this opinion-, it is when they are most understandable. My soul is not dead. What a fart! There should be pleasure for the instinct to follow: to put standards, scales, expectations, to economise pleasure in such way, for such a long time, it only means to know the role given to each of us and to walk a path weve chosen blindly and with no end in sight. Its all good to treat the path as a race and whoever finishes first will win, but I thought we convinced ourselves that we had won already, I thought we made the superior choice to be the consciousness of the universe, I thought this was the one hundred metres race, -I must have gotten in the wrong competition. Why am I still running, why are we still running? Is it so impossible to believe that in the war for a piece of bread, in the big game called survival of the fittest, a program which is shown in all the TV channels of the universe, we might actually be the losers, finish our 15 minutes of fame with a bow and retire? Or does that thought appal me as much as a fart not my own might make me get up from the chair and leave the building altogether? Between a war against the material and a war against the spiritual, between an indulgent path and an ascetic one, which one would you chose? Where is the pleasure of so many questions, when one can easily jump one of so many jet engine ropes only to indulge in madness, or piss on standards if for no reason at all? Let me lie down in your thoughts and your soul and your lap, and I dont even need a pillow; Ill just rest my head in your touchable smell and Ill hum a tune and if you want, you can sing it back.

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## katana

i called to let you know that the moon spoke to me. it could very well be because the night is so quiet that i can hear the moon better than the sun or because the moon well its the moon. 
You couldnt hear me; the sun had just come out? I called again today to ask whether you had seen the sun today cause it didnt show up this morning in NY. only to have you tell me that its cloudy there as well. Couldn't be mad at you now cause you hadn't seen it either.

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## Cruel

Eyes fall into the void
Brain shuts down the memory lane
Darkness brings peace
I'm taking a vacation from life
Just Nothingness and Me

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## Henri

Now now, Nothingness is not that good, you won't even be able to hear your own echo. What would -I- be, if me can't even recognize the presence of -I-?!

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## katana

I CANNOT FEEL THE SUN 
I cannot feel the sun. 
Always sunk in sunset 
trapped in clouds, 
its few escaping rays 
pierce my heart. 
Then darkness comes 
swathed in sorrow 
and the moon 
the stand-up comic* in the sky 
patters on 
and passion turns to irony. 

blair kasneci



ja dhe ne shqip

DHE DIELLIN S'MUND TA PREK 


Dhe diellin s'mund ta prek. 
Për jetë u ç'kri , në  perëndim .
Pak rreze që përshkojnë retë 
Ma kthejnë jetën në mallëngjim .

Dhe...ja  erdhi errësira ,
 stolisur me trishtim.
Për "karshi "gajaset  Hëna.
Kjo mashtruese e ç'mendur!!. 
Pasion ka ironinë.

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## Cruel

Me doesn't want to recognize -I-.  -I- is an ambitious civilized monkey, a freak show, Mother Nature on its wildest and most cruel perfomarnce. -I- has absoulte freedom, rational to perfection, an end, a cul-de-sac, untouchable like a God.  -I- is God and so it is dead, indeed -I- is Nothingness itself with a face and a counsciesness.  -I- IS DEAD.

Me doesn't want to recognize -I-.  Me is simply a piece of dream, a particle flying in endless struggles of happines, in eternal moments of absolute life.  Me is weak, primmitive, avalanche of emotions, a peaceful "forgive and forget".  ME IS ....now...and....then

One day God was masturbating, somehow Mary got pregnant and Me and -I- were created.  Me and -I- are twin bastards.

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## katana

*I* cannot die! 





shall we change the rules? from I roll you lick, to I roll you talk?
do i have anything to say? so what should i talk about?
I
I as in I or I as in ur I
there is only one I. and since you're talking it's not mine
........

talking about I. 
waiting for the sun to come up.

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## kulla

I cannot die because it is a necesity born out of a pain that we know will come again. why do you cut my feet from under me and then point to the closet and say "there! there is your crutch. your I. you need it". I is a walking stick, not a best friend. what does one need I for when one can fly with the wings of one, linguistically speaking? what does one need I for when one has already found a new idol, greater, fuller and more compact, selfishly speaking? but even one is not enough. and if nothing is too much and one is not enough, what then, what? dance to the god of the sun!? 

to **** all those that put me in the rails that can only take me to explored lands. I am a boat and I'm waiting for the sun too, for it's cloudy and I cannot make out the stars.  but maybe the sun is a walking stick, too. I'll roam under dark clouds.

I'm tired of I. I have good feet.

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## Albioni

I am me, and I cant talk about I, because I dont even fucking know who I is. 

This is so funny because everybody is bullshitin the I of themselves

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## Cruel

hehehe...

...I was about to write some more about the drunk -I- and its "intellectual wannabe" bullshit, but I think you simply summed it up.  The way "i" see it, BULLSHIT, is the key to the illusion of happines.

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## Cruel

It was long time ago when -I- renounced of it's "divinity".  Since than I has become the black sheep of the self.
What happened to "me"?  "Me" lost its innocence before the first orgasm was stolen from the March of broken smiles

Leave the moon to -I-. for "me" used to aim for the Sun.  At the end it will be called the "Revenge of the Moon".....but is it really necessary

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## kulla

oh but I is still the pope, and the pope's balls are bigger than melons. either that, or it's wet a couple of cherrys more than the others to really be the pope. in stra's terms: big balls, big power, bigger territorial pissings, biggest masturbator in the whole fucking world. how many apples does I need to renounce "divinity"? even if the whole world was made of apples, each full of worms or snakes, I is still god, because I wills it so. the real question is, how big can the buble get, or even, how strong is that condom? me? that's the real bullshit. revenge of the moon? hihihihi! I bites when the sun is at the summit, when me and I are "one". can you vomit enough? it smells very familiar. my new favorite word: hipocrisy. well? vomit! I doesn't see very well on the dim light of the moon.

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