Sunset for an old man

by vladan maksimovic

«I have my pleasures, just not plain ones» – said the old man wandering the fields of his home village. That put him down. He’d be thinking for a few minutes, and then finished the thought by saying the last sentence, the last link of that chain, out loud… That wasn’t the game he played consciously. It happened spontaneously, although too often, and ended again too often with a poor sentence. That was putting him down.

He wandered the fields freely. Farmers already got accustomed to that, as they thought he was crazy. He felt comfortable with that assumption.

He watched the red sky, and the sun setting down, like a stubborn child, unreasonable. Magical moment to enjoy yourself and take a break from work. Maybe think of something melancholy, dully. He wondered how nice it would be if he brought a blanket, or two, lied in the clover field and looked at the sky. Then he thought how it would be even nicer if he could smoke some marijuana. Now already a gentle smile was on his face.

He’s got better jokes, but fuck him, he’s old.» – he imagined how his rare and only visitor talks about him.

A single thought of the city made him create a face, and that has developed into a semi tic. Sometimes he’d spot that tic in the mirror and spit on him, but that didn’t help. He moved his head away to get rid of these thoughts and sat under the walnut tree. Sudden change of mood. He looks at his shaking hands and laughs. He takes off his hat, then scratches his head, and looks back down to his lap, where he put his old, black hat. From this view thoughts in his head blossomed, increased. He had roses up his nose, and violets in his ears. Then he slightly bowed to the earth and rubbed his thighs, like someone who was served his favorite dish, or receiving some special honor. He puts up and hands back his hat, warning his thoughts to refrain a bit, not to be so rascally.

“This is a break,” thought the old man. Fighting with cramps in his neck, he put up his head and took a cigarette case that, like the hat, carried the burden of memories. He took of his shoes, and set foot on them, shrinking them. He lit a cigarette and enjoyed it. He got lost in his thoughts again, and yet he knew it was all in vain.


Zalazak Sunca Za Starca

“Imam svoja zadovoljstva, samo nisu jednostavna” rekao je starac lutajući njivama svog rodnog sela. To ga je spustilo. Razmišljao bi nekoliko minuta, i onda završio temu tako što bi poslednju rečenicu, poslednju kariku tog lanca misli, izgovorio naglas… To nije bila igra koju je on svojom željom igrao. Desavalo se spontano, mada previše često, i završavalo se opet previše često sa lošom rečenicom. To ga je spuštalo. Slobodno je lutao poljima. Seljaci su se već navikli na to, mislili su da je lud. Komforno je uživao u tom preduslovu. Gledao je crveno nebo, i sunce kako nestaje, kao tvrdoglavo dete, nerazumno. Čaroban trenutak u kom treba uživati, predahnuti od posla. Možda se malo zamisliti, ali melanholično, tupo. On je razmišljao kako bi voleo da je od kuće poneo deku, ili dve, legao u detelinu i gledao nebo. Pomislio je kako bi to bilo jos lepše kad bi mogao da popuši malo marihuane. Sad se već blagi osmeh cerio na njegovom licu. “Ima on bolje fore, ali, jebi ga, star je.”-zamišljao je kako njegov retki i jedini posetilac priča o njemu. Pomisao na grad mu je stvarala grimase, to se već razvilo u neki polu tik. Uhvatio bi nekad taj tik u ogledalu i pljunuo u njega, ali to nije pomagalo. Klimnuo je glavom u stranu da se rastereti tih misli i seo ispod oraha, naslonivši se na stablo. Nagla promena raspoloženja. Gleda u svoje drhtave ruke i smeje se. Skida šešir sa glave, onda se počeše po njoj, i spusti pogled ka svom krilu, gde je smestio svoj stari, crni šešir. Od tog pogleda misli u glavi su mu se rascvetale, namnožile. Imao je ruže u nosu, i ljubičice u ušima. Tad se blago sagnuo prema zemlji i protrljao butine kao kad nekom poslužite omiljeno jelo, ili mu ukažete kakvu posebnu čast. Uspravlja se i rukom vraća šešir, usput opominje misli da se malkice uzdrže, da ne budu tako raskalašne. “Ovo je predah” pomislio je starac. Boreći se sa grčevima u vratu, uspravio je svoju glavu i izvadio tabakeru koja je opet kao i šešir vukla sa sobom teret uspomena. Izuo je cipele, i stavio stopala na njih, gužvajuci ih. Zapalio je cigaretu i prijalo mu je. Izgubio se opet u mislima, a opet znao je da je sve to taština.

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