Let me see what the blind can see.

And I close my eyes again.
Let me see what the blind can see. Besides, I have betted with my brother that I can walk further than he. You mustn't fall or step off the edge of the pavement. It's not really dark, just pitch dark. It is as if I were looking out of a cow. If I turn my head toward the sun, I have chewed my way through the intestines, there is only the skin left. Beams of light are zig-zagging, it's as if someone had strewn hot nails over. I feel dizzy. No, this is no good, after all. The back of my hand rubs against the wall, I feel my ankle wobble on the kerb. It isn't good to live inside this dark cow swaying heavily; I am prickled by the nails, burnt by desire.
And I close my eyes yet again.
It's night, so it's dark anyway. There is only the dim light of the street lamps creeping in between the bars of the shutter. I lie in bed, grandma still rummaging in the kitchen, my eyes get used to the dark quickly. I can see the awkward block of the chest of drawers, the vases, the coat rack with the cardigan hanging from it, I can see the dining table, the outlines of the lace hanging down at the edges slowly come into sight, the chandelier, like a sluggish octopus, descends from the ceiling. The wall-clock, like a drying musical instrument, divides the dim filtering light into a muffled hollow rhythm. I close my eyes. This is real darkness now. I think of grandfather: what can he see there, poor thing, four metres deep, where they had put him, closing the coffin, too. I'm frightened. I close my eyes. My consciousness is a frightened lamp. There is school tomorrow, I'll have to sleep sooner or later.
And I open my eyes, and then close them again.
Having no way to see darkness while I'm alive, I try to imagine what it is like. How about this: walking into a cellar and having the door locked on me. I'm coal, a grave fossil. A temple in January, a letter in a closed psalmbook. Total eclipse of the sun. The sun sinks in oil, there's no moonlight, no energy, not even a comet coming. Speechless fish, I dive deep under water, to Marianas trough, I will be sugar in coffee, money in the safe, a bat, a mole, gauze at the bottom of a heap of rubbish. At night I start running aroung the Earth to avoid being caught by the sun. I will be a dirty T-shirt, a pit-pony, a locomotive, a curtain at a theatre performance. I will be in love again, a living corpse, my own shadow.
I try to imagine, I try and try.

Szerző: Gyula Zeke
Fordító: Dezső Bánki
Nyelv: english
Megjelenés dátuma: 2007