# Kultura > Letërsia shqiptare > Krijime në gjuhë të huaja >  After midnight

## Cupke_pe_Korce

Finally, I was home.  I was just outside, looking around the garden as if I wanted to determine how much time had passed since I was last there, but everything had aged so much that I could barely recognize their original shapes.  The bench was still there. I stretched my fingers and touched it; the green paint was coming off in dry flakes and the whole thing smelt rotten. “They must have had a lot of rain,” I thought and all of the sudden, a violent fear seized my whole being. In all agitation I run up the stairs and threw the doors open: to my astonishment I didn’t see my parents! Instead, my house was inhabited by some estranged creatures whose faces I had never seen before, and that upon my arrival, stepped aside. “What the hell is going on,” I muttered as I made my way through. Every one of them was looking at me as if I had landed from another planet; their death-like faces looked incredibly similar, translucent, unmovable, with two black holes popping out with curiosity.
“Did you think I was dead? – I exclaimed in all my might – Did you think I would never return? Did you????” and I heard my own voice resounding through the roof.
“Out! All of you!!!”
I was standing there, almost out of breath, like a wounded beast ready to attack and devour the hunter at his slightest move.  The creatures continued to stare at me coldly, and one after the other, left the room in silence. Only the lady in blue velvet dress didn’t move. She continued staring at me as if resisting obeying the order I had just given.  Infuriated, I turned to her:
“What once belonged to me will always belong to me, whether in this life or in the other!  This is my house. Get out!”
The little girl she was holding by the hand was squeezing about her, and from the frightened look in her eyes I realized I had given her the face of death.  They too left without saying a word.  I felt like the skies had fallen upon my shoulders, and I threw myself on the sofa next to me.  “Ah, these puppets which spring everywhere! How hideous they are!  their presence is eating me alive.”
The world became inexpressibly quiet; my breath resumed its normal rhythm but my eyelids felt heavier and heavier when in confusion, a sun beam entered the room and, with an ephemeral glitter, started dancing upon the red carpet, upon the small table, and dancing away until the whole world dissolved into a sparkling dust.

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## Cupke_pe_Korce

“You know – I said to him – I have this dream day and night, where I am found in the front of a big screen, so close to my face, and on that screen hideous engravings appear abruptly [ my God, they are so lifelike!]… and I stretch my hands and reach for one –it's only paper – and I tear it into a million pieces but once I am finished, another one comes along, and I reach for that too, chop it up… and then another one comes….and there is more and more….and I continue to deface each one of them until my fingertips are soaked in blood, and I ask myself: “How many lives do I need to finish them all?!”
He had been listening all along without saying a word, and now he removed his dark  spectacles and I, for the first time,  looked into his eyes: they seemed rather uneasy.  “It’s a terrible thing indeed to know everybody without being known by any.  There is so much a human being can endure!”  Saying this he sighed deeply, put on his spectacles again, and immediately changed the subject: 
“Shall we continue?”
“Yes, where did we leave off?

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## Leila

I dreamt that the furrow swallowed a fly and birthed Nintu, mother of the 3 old hags who between them shared 9 young, beautiful daughters. You can see them, I'm told, in some parts of North-Eastern Europe, plowing away at midnight and attacking with shovels and scythes any man that dares come near. And the crops grow and grow (you should see them go!)... to monstrous and mythical proportions. That's a way of saying they don't grow at all.

Then the English Essentials little big *e* (remember?) starts spinning round and round and round up there on the ceiling while I'm laying there on the bed and telling them that the mask over my mouth is too big. Have I shrunk? They remove the adult mask and put the child mask on my face. I try not to make any sudden movements that will frighten them. But what if they start opening me up thinking I'm asleep? I move my knee, and someone jumps over me to hold me down. I feel their hands, that means I'll feel the knife on my skin. So I stare solemnly at the black e as it spins on the yellow background. Why e? Why not o? It's got perfect symmetry and is just an all around easier figure. If other letters start popping up, it could create a nice eufoni. Maybe that's what it stands for. I could add an epinofëm -- ejheeej. I wait. The e is still there, eshtake and bold. Won't change colors or shapes. It won't move. It just sits there on the center and spins like the hands of a clock. I think I hear a faint sound from a horror flick of the 70's, like "Rosemary's Baby." Oh! that's what it stands for: embrion. He wants to name our daughter Eriola, after a body part, from a breast at that. No, e. I hereby declare you Ezhdërhaja.

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## Cupke_pe_Korce

Did I say so? Surely, I was not in my senses. I don’t have dreams; I only have nightmares, and in bright daylight because… time came to a halt that summer day when my sleep was pleasantly troubled, yes! it was a hot day in June when the air was impregnated with the aroma of palm trees; underneath them, the hammock of life performed its last oscillations.  Anything after that has been a reconstruction of my mind. 

ps. I’m awfully jealous of your Ezhdërhaja.

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## Cupke_pe_Korce

He thinks she is capricious; she thinks he is uncaring.  They see each other rarely, too rarely I might say, and each time they see each other she feels like the first time; each time they part she fears will be the last. Some things never change.
"It's in your arms where I am most alone," she said one day. "I know," he replied [and squeezed her.]  Thats all he said.  And yet, in this overpopulated land of insanity, she thinks he is the only one to cast a shadow under the sun. If you say so, he replies [raising his eyebrow.] One neednt waste energy on vain thinking, he says, and she knows he is right. Yet, he drives 200 miles just to see her. It's crazy, she says. I know it is, he acknowledges indolently.  Before they kiss goodnight, they know the sun won't rise for days, maybe even months, but this is how the world goes around. As usual, he winks at her from a distance and, as usual, she smiles candidly. I knew you before time; before you came to exist; I knew you forever, she might have said, but he wouldnt have believed her, for he would have thought it was a pure childish fantasy like the story of the man in the black cloak she is so terrified of. "But hes real," she insists, adding that whenever he bangs the hammer the earth shakes beneath her feet. Hes unshakable.
How can you be sure you believe in it if you've never doubted its existence? If it doesn't hurt, how can you be sure its alive?

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## Leila

_Be_ jealous of the bastard! He's not even mine (but somehow I'm his -- unfair as it is, we've got bigger fish to fry). Had he been mine in the full sense of the word, there could be salvation for me after all. Instead, my very first moments of consciousness every morning suffer me a form of Chinese water torture -- I'm in love! Again! Again? Again?!?! By God, I seem to be! And here I thought it would happen only once or twice (or thrice) in a lifetime. To be fair to myself and you and him and Ezhdërhaja, I _have_ said it since the beginning -- love is a mental disorder, an anarchy in the brain. Why not? The symptoms are identical everywhere, save for the 200 miles bit instead of 600. For example, right here... this above passage that I had missed until now is de rigueur in such ordeals we’re faced with. And I don’t think, I _know_ he is uncaring.

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## Cupke_pe_Korce

A malady indeed!  to which (as if it was the only one this life of hers can endure!) she was unquestionably, blindly, shamefully; in the most absurd manner faithful.  Secretly, she wished she was capable of betraying this feeling not so much for her own satisfaction rather than escaping his enslaving gravity  but when she thought of it, not only she found herself utterly helpless, but was also devastated by a feeling of guilt.  If one had flipped over the coin and looked at the other side, one would have realized that the greatest sins are committed against the self, and for this very reason, one is beyond redemption.  Same rules applied here: forever with him and always alone, she was condemned to submit to the most ludicrous gestures, most incredible reveries, without being confronted with the slightest resistance from her own will. Disgraceful!  Would you be upset if I died? she had asked him once as he kissed her hand in a very extravagant manner.  Why would you, he had replied; his eyes sparkling with a fire she never understoodright there, uncontrollable butterflies rose from the depths, and in a circular motion embraced the flame; their wings burning, burning, burningfor a moment she thought she might loose sight of the signs as she drove to the airport. International Arrivals. Terminal E. Did she fear it? Did she regret she had played, and at times laughed at, this dangerous joke? She didnt, for she knew that, if they crashed, they would belong inseparably together. _Aint life Grand?_

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## Cupke_pe_Korce

When he is asleep she has nightmares.   If one could explain her somnambulism, one certainly would have attributed it to her undisputed passion for theatrical performances.  Acting is the only skill man had to learn before he came to exist.  “How so?” one might ask.  It’s rather simple.  “Acting” proceeds “being” that is to say, “acting” is the inexistent form of “being.”  Think about the state of existence: it’s just a segment, isn’t it? First of all, we are nothing (this doesn’t even make sense but let’s not worry about it); then we come to exist (from nonexistence), and eventually go out of existence.  Hence, in order for the circle (of existence) to be completed, acting must be present. [here she recalled the story of the girl whose face was transfigured; she tried to imagine her missing jaw, her countless surgeries and certainly the penetrating look the eyes of the horses poured upon her “being” (she truly believed these animals were the only ones capable of seeing her as she was—without a face); she could even recall so vividly the last paragraph of her autobiography:  “I used to think truth was eternal, that once I knew, once I saw, it would be with me forever, a constant by which everything would be measured.  I know now that his isn’t so, that most truths are inherently unretainable …society…it tells us again and again that we can most be ourselves by acting…”] Surely, the girl was able to see beyond herself, but my God, at too dear of a price!  But “acting” (as she thought of it) reveals everything, and all this for granted, so she lowered the lights:
You know what they say?  Men would have been less hateful if every one of them did not wear a face.  But I say, if man could have _a face_! If you still think what you see walking down the street is a human being, you are dead wrong.   All you see is his face.  If, by chance, he tried to remove it, he would be horrified by what he sees—the world his own mind had fathomed does not exist.  Not only would have he failed to recognize it, for all he sees now is faces, but he wouldn’t have been recognized by the world which can only identify one by his face.  Then he would run…run to put on his face again, hoping to wake up form the nightmare he just went through, but now what was broken cannot be made whole again; now he realizes that it’s not his face that had died—it’s his very essence that had failed to exist. Thus, he would roam the earth like a damned spirit to find out why the truth—the truth that never was!—had betrayed him this way, but all the answers would point back on himself. Painfully aware of this condition, he would have to accept, and live, with the truth that no human being exists on this planet, that their species went extinct when faces appeared.  Fortunately enough, this is not the case. No man is brave enough to tear off his face. Yes—_the face_—man’s only successor, is what really exists today.

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## DeLiRiUm TrEmEnS

> No man is brave enough to tear off his face. Yes—the face—man’s only successor, is what really exists today.


Pergjithesimet, rastisin te jene edhe te gabuara, ndonse edhe kur behet fjale per nje terresi shqisash apo pjese te trupit, ... perbejne fytyren. Me e lehte eshte te shkojme nganjehere me teorine e "verberise" te shqisave te shikimit. Me lejoni te sjell nje shembull prej Shatorit te kaluar, kur ne fillim te sezonit tim prej "paraziti", mora rrugen per te takuar nje krijese femerore dhe ..., njekohesisht per te pire nje kafe, (pa thonjeza). ... Parapelqej te shprehem "pa thonjeza", sepse vertet nuk kisha ndonje motiv tjeter specifik, pervecse nje takimi te thjeshte, sepse ... , te shprehem me sa me pak terma,ne kete bote ka gjera per te cilat nuk mund te kthehesh mbrapsht.

Dhe ..., a mund te me thote dikush ne ka ndonje gje te jashtezakonshem perbrenda deshires per te takuar dike dhe ... per te konsumuar ne bisede e siper nje kafe amerikane?(!) Perse logjikohet e arsyeshme pyetja, ... bren rrendomti personazhen ne anen tjeter te tavolines: "Cili eshte qellimi i kesaj "kafeje"?(!)". Dhe ..., ne momentin gjenez te thyerjes se heshtjes, fjalia e pare pyetesore, ishte: " ... Po nqs une te them 'JO!', c'do te besh? ... Do me hapesh ndonje shpulle" (Fjaline e fundit po e le me vetedije te bojkotuar nga pikesimi, sepse ..., sepse nuk e kuptoj ende, (ne baze te tingellimit te dikurshem), ne ishte nje ide pyetsore, habitore, apo ..., apo, ndoshta, thjesht deftore.) Me te cuditshme ne domethenie, kete rast e perben fakti se para dy fjalive te lart permendura une nuk kisha shprehur ndonje deshire, mendim , apo ... ide nenkuptuese, ... te meritonte pergjigjen e lartpermendur. Fatmiresisht, isha krejtesisht i paushqyer prej tyre.

... Pergjate momentit ne fjale, si mund te mos tundohet nje njeri i cili buzeqesh rralle, (per te mos u shprehur "kurre!"); te bojkotoje mundesine e paperseritshme per te dhuruar nje buzeqeshje ironike, qofte ajo edhe e fundit celje buzesh(?!) Ne raste te tilla, besoj se nuk eshte e domosdoshme te merren ne konsiderate pergjithesimet apo ... unikalizmat gjinore. Njeriu fsheh ne berthame vecse "njeriun"! ... Ne anen tjeter te universit human, rruajme si gjene me te shtrenjte nder hamendesime, tymin vegimtar te imagjinates - kjo shtellunge e tejdukshme plazme pengon rrezet vijne prej fytyres se nje individi te konvergohen drejt ne ekranin optik te personit deshiron te perceptoje pagabime nje fytyre njerezore.

... Gjithesesi, die me zboi nje liber - me "deboi", ne kuptimin se ..., me flaku jashte prej faqeve te tij. Ndoshta, isha berre se tepermi monoton duke mbeshtetur krusur gjarperoren kolonon nervore perreth perimetrit te brendshem te germes "G". Me kete shkronje kapitale te shtypit merrte jete kapitulli i 12-te, dhe ... une nuk kisha me nerva te beja me tutje. Sepse ..., me "G" nisin shume emra te pervecem, dhe ... vetem nje pergjithesues emer: GLORIA.

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## Cupke_pe_Korce

Last night she saw life being born. A scary sight! Creatures of a bizarre shape and form, multiplying themselves in horrific proportions, were wiggling their skin naked bodies to the point of vomiting.  Their multiple limbs were touching one-others incredibly translucent skin which, lined by numerous capillaries, now looked pinkish.  Their naïvely open mouths, moving in all directions as if searching for something familiar, appeared toothless while their popping eyes still remained closed.  Lifenatural as it iswas piling up in a filthy cradle, skin upon skin, horror upon horrorlifewiggling. What if they move out of the cradle? she asked, and shuddered at the thought.  Realizing the immediate danger she cried out for help, but her mute voice was unable to produce any recognizable words. Without loosing sight of the cradle, she started backing off in fearful silence when she tripped over something.  She fell; opened her eyes: a dimly lit world was emerging from dust. No, it wasnt life she saw last night. It was an abortion.

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## Cupke_pe_Korce

Speak no more; I beseech you,
for only silence speaks truly to the heart.  
Wasnt words that failed us
again and again? and our reason
ruthlessly feeding upon our flesh;
its silver claws never tired of clenching,
reaching deep within us
sizing that elusive something?
And yet, it still remains unknown,
how deep is _deep_.
Oh, speak no more!
Many things were saidtrue, false, sad
but nothing _truly_.
So, dont speak. 
The sky is painted purple;
Life has had its days
and night walks in,
unfurling her blue veil 
over the region where
memories dwell.
Speak no more, and dont try to understand
how mute words devour my brain
digging a hole in ita black hole
which, swirling around, 
absorbs, 
sustains.
Never again 
shall the light escape from it!
So, speak no more; only listen
to what silence has to say:
Faith in humanity cannot be restored
by empty prayers.
Faith is earned!
So, one last stretch dear, 
one last voiceless stretch.

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## Cupke_pe_Korce

Overcast skies are giving way. A leaf trembles in the breeze. A bird squatters amongst the branches. A roar rises from the depths of horizon, blowing, changing.  On the other side, ivy has stretched its multiple arms around the world which, suffocating in lush greenness, now sighs a few vapors of relief, while a million little stars cascade down the window like the bouquet of the bride when she walks down the isle.  One uncurls its body and feels the warmth: the temple is lit; the flame burns high. As if by some mysterious force, ever lengthening, ever sharpening, the doors fling opena river of gold dashes out, flooding the heart of that ephemeral and indefinable thing which is often seen swinging its slender body over the abyss. Perishable! Its all perishable, except the footsteps upon the path of fearfear that changes, fear that sustains, and which can only be induced by the velvet touch of otherworldliness. 
I said I will forget but I lied.

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## Cupke_pe_Korce

Do you remember the day I took you to the airport? British Airways had made and unexpected landing and a multitude of people kept darting through the two sided door which flung open every two seconds. You said you had never seen so many people before, all rushing to reach some destination, all carrying with them black suitcases, dragging them, and dragging. And the lady with green eyes; remember how the little girl let go off her hand and burst forth in all vigor once she caught sight of the man in the bowler hat? She run gracefully (you were still holding the iron bars when you felt the blood rushing, the veins swelling, the heart beating at her springy footsteps—an arrow of pain went through your whole being each time her pink shoes touched the marble floor. You held the iron bars tighter, tighter, when in a blink of an eye, her youthful body let go off its natural balance and blundered) She fell. She lay there helplessly, her hair tangled, her limbs spread out; she lay there motionless. It seemed like the entire universe held its breath for a few seconds and then recovered at a sudden cry, a childish one, like the one life screams when it beholds the sun for the first time.  The man in the bowler hat made haste and, bending down, he stretched his clumsy arms and picked her up. He held her tightly as he led her away and the scene was over. You could still hear her crying in the hallway; her voice becoming fainter, dying away and slowly dying…
Sometimes, it is by a childish blunder we realize that some part of us will always be waiting at some airport, while some other is always carrying through—life!—the black suitcase, stuffed with the least important and most necessary things, which we long to get rid off upon arrival.

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## Cupke_pe_Korce

The boat was moving, slowly but surely, turning its enormous deck eastward.  The city lights drew back at the same pace, their flickering existence becoming weaker and weaker, until the eye could only see a bluish-yellowish crown encircling what once was the skyline.  A pleasant wind was hugging the flag which seemed too excited to resist the flutter of passion, while the stars disappeared from the view as they do when the storm is approaching.  Now the boat had picked up speed. The sail was gentle; the sky was dark. There, there, at a distance, the journey had reached the triple point: darkness, sky and sea—all fused together, inseparably together, all coexisting at a point where time and space have lost their attributes—the point of no return. She stared at this miraculous event with the frenzy of a madwoman and closed her eyes to better hear the roaming wind.  The earth was spinning counterclockwise, faster, faster; the days, months, years, kept falling across the sky like burning meteorites which dissolve just before they hit the ground. “Nothing, nothing will ever be the same!”—she heard. She knew that voice (for years it kept dashing in her brain) and she wanted to scream—a scream that for years remained imprisoned within her—“How could it possibly when it never was?!”— and she wanted to smash that screen where the most ruthless of plays was performing, into a million little pieces, turn it to dust…—but she said nothing; she did nothing.  Untroubled by the waters that rose and fell the boat kept descending, down, down, in the eternal darkness. 
God is a comedian, they say.  Then, why like tragedy???

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