soysoler soysoler

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AS  World perspectives in eclectic squares

Portraits on the run II
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The last man at this side of the border. He looks at me and I take his eyes as bidding me farewell, as if he would know of my future; he might posses some secret of mine he will not reveal. He has seen into my fate and quietly watches me as I speed by and silence his unspoken confidentiality with the trailing dust of a rented car.

Portraits on the run II
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It was wife and husband who ran the tiny gas-station. Chickens roamed between our tires and made their way between our legs. Toilets were at the back, with rusted car parts protruding out of the high grass and pipes dripped in steady rhythms. We stopped for two kinds of fuel: gasoline and coffee and decided to stay just a bit longer.

Portraits on the run II
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A friendly duo on the side of the road. We stopped at the albanian-macedonian border to spend our last Leks on gasoline where these two jolly old-time friends greeted us with smiles and dark coffee. Almost a reflection of the men standing in front of them.

Weight
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Let them cry out anger for their sentence and gutter frustration for their penance. Allow them though, to find joy in the baths of the daily sun. Let them insult the disgraces of loitering and rejoice in the simpleness of the human condition. Bliss is not a privilege of the well-off but sometimes a treasure of the disregarded.

Weight
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Let them carry their destiny like mules up the hill, upwards the slope of neglect to the crest of a left-zeroed old age.

Weight
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Let them acknowledge their fate, be the children of their condition and be born in the pre-fabrications of anonymity.
Offsprings of the asphalt, of the bridges and the running river chocked with pollution of urban indifference.

Portraits on the run
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Casual words are spoken into the winds of autumn, whispers of confidence in friendship blow out the leaves from their locks up there in the trees.
Two friends sing out a prayer to the goddess of time to wane the withering of the flesh.
Two old confidants flirt with immortality.

Portraits on the run
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Inhabiting the shadows of this world like embarrassments for the race, not knowing nor possessing the truth that in shadows we are made.
The ancient fire burns deeper in the guts of the left-behind for they know man for what man is. They see kindness in an honest, raw form; they see the arrogant, the ignorant and the pitiless; they wander through the smells of this true species, it’s gutters and urinated corners. They are the keepers of tradition, watching that mankind remains true to it’s code. Street dwellers to save the secrets of humanity.

Portraits on the run
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Little peeks into visages at my east.
One temporary sailor or remorseless stowaway gazes at the moon as she reflects on the waters of the Adriatic. Sharing undulations of the rocking ship and the droplets of water venturing from the broken surface to our curious, salt-delighted nostrils.

The colors of the land
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A heritage of pride decorates abandoned walls, a somewhat forgotten tradition of stalinist humors. Once, one of the hardest places to visit or get out, the rebel child of the warsaw pact. Yugoslavia’s little red-brother but a sleeping ethnic giant who’s cultural tradition might yet dictate the future of a region where borderlines still itch on the maps.

The colors of the land
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And sometimes identity is built with the raw materials of friendship, of mutual worship and conspiracy. Here Andres reaches lovingly towards the Albanian flag, a nation and folk that was ours, even if for just a small instant. He stretches towards it as the roots of camaraderie expand into the deep soil of fraternal love and hold the tree of loyal alliance.

The colors of the land
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The definition of the self is not an easy game to play. On occasions, such a definition might be chosen, on others it might be imposed to delight or contempt of the defined.
Identity provides a path, a narrative that gives a sense of unity across the passage of time to the troubled, aging soul of man. A story to tell oneself to defy the facts of change.
I am my sex, my gender, my music, my religion, my blood and the blood of my dead, my soil, my flag, my land...
For as long as man is flesh, he will be a patriot, even if his fatherland is to be the universe.

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