Snegokolačići / Snowcookies

! This post was written long ago. What you're reading is not necessarily how I feel about things in 2017. This blog was started by an 18-year-old in 2001. Please, keep that in mind before you freak out.

Fresh out of the Wrong Star bakery, here are Snowcookies - a hermetic, claustophibic, panic look into a...rounded shape. It could be the exact "stage" that's one of the places where all these take place, it could be only the central part of that stage in its future shape, it could be one's heart, it could be one's mind, or both. If there's something that looks like the Simpsons Movie here...well, it's an inevitable comparison. And I like the Simpsons. And Homer's profession is pretty much Wrong Star-ish...just remember the Mindy Simmons episode, when he finds a freakin' brick under the booth.

Snowcookies themselves? Well, they were made out of the purest thing in the world, they contain honey and there's a slight hint they're poisonous. There are at least four ways to perceive them, one of which is related to the stage itself, one of which is sick and tasteless, the other of which is wrong and disturbing and the least obvious of which is probably what it really is.

At the same time, I wish someone'd bake me a snowcookie. Or get me Lilly biscuits, as I imagine snowcakes to look like Lilly with honey added.

The pocket mirror is there for three reasons - one is the obvious inability to let something go, one is a hint to a book which has a chapter somewhat similar to this p..m (remember: Wrong Star is full of parodies/adult takes of fairy-tales and children's books) and one is a little homage to a moose...I mean, muse.


Mali je ovo svet.
Iako nije baš okrugao,
iz ovih koncentričnih krugova
prepunih snegokolačića
nema izlaska.

Kad god pokušam da odem,
opsujem te kako to samo ja mogu,
kako nikom drugom ne bih dopustila,
pripremim oproštajnu poruku
i odlazim, ne okrećući se,
jer mi je lakše da u ruci nosim ogledalo.

Uvek otkrijem neko zanimljivo mesto,
poneki tempirani cvet neodoljivih boja
neku drugu iskricu preostalu od Velike Vatre,
pa nastavim tragom snegokolačića,
i za par trenutaka
opet sam ispred tebe,
opet sam u samom središtu,
ispred tebe,
tamo gde već dugo niko ne sme,
tako gde se niko nije usudio.

Svi putevi ovde su tvoji,
svi ovi putevi vode od tebe,
da bi se ispostavilo da vode tebi.
Svi ovi putevi vode tebi,
da bi se ispostavilo da vode od tebe.
Svi putevi ovde su tvoji.

Kako sam mogla da pomislim da ću imati svoj put?
Samo bi ga premesio, razbacao putokaze,
i posuo snegokolačiće da bih te pronašla
I to bi bio još jedan od tvojih puteva.

Volim te. Ne volim te.
Volim te. Ne volim te.
Volim te. Ne volim te.
Volim te. Ne volim te.

Ukoliko je ovo velika snežna kugla,
uskoro nećemo moći napolje,
ako svetlucavi sneg ponovo padne,
pašće samo na nas,
peći će samo naše oči,
topiće samo naša lica,
samo mi ćemo biti snegokolačići.

Ukoliko smo obmotani paučinom,
ti si pauk koji ni ne zna da je pauk,
a ja sam muva na niti naliko jo-jou,
i idem samo gore-dole, gore-dole,
kad se odbijem o tlo pomislim kako te volim,
kad osetim tvoje pipke pomislim kako te mrzim.

Mali svet,
veoma mali svet,
ti, koji se ne pomeraš,
ja koju je nešto proklelo
i više nikad neće moći napolje
i gomila zalutalih iskrica
kojima ne mogu da pokažem pravi put
jer ga ni sama nikad nisam pronašla.

Volim te. Ne volim te.
Volim te. Ne volim te.
Volim te. Ne volim te.
Volim te. Ne volim te.

...ali uzalud je ova igra.
Ovde cvetovi imaju beskonačni broj latica,
kad otkinem jedan, već je nikao drugi
i nikako ne mogu da dobijem odgovor.
Ovde si matica koja nije htela da bude matica,
a ja sam nesrećna buba koja te gleda
i svako malo hoće nešto meda,
a onda se trgne i udara o zid košnice
jer pomisli da će je taj med zaista ubiti,
a snegokolačići su ga prepuni.


This is a small world.
Though it's not exactly rounded,
There is no way out
Of these concentric circles
Full of snowcookies.

Whenever I try to leave,
I swear at you like only I could,
Like I wouldn't let anyone to,
I scribble down a goodbye note,
And I walk on, not turning around,
Yet holding a little pocket mirror.

I always discover some interesting place,
Some clockwork flower of irresistible colours,
Some other spark remains of the Great Fire
I follow the trace made out of snowcookies
And in a couple of moments,
I end up standing before you again,
I end up in the very centre again,
Standing before you again,
Where no one's been allowed in a while,
Where no one's dared to go in a while.

All ways in here are yours,
All ways here lead away from you,
So they could turn out to lead up to you.
All ways here lead up to you,
So they could turn out to lead away from you.
All the ways in here are yours.

How did I get the thought of having a way of my own?
You'd just reshape it, scatte the signs around,
And spilled snowcookies for me to find you
And it would be another of your ways.

I love you. I love you not.
I love you. I love you not.
I love you. I love you not.
I love you. I love you not.

If this is a gigantic snow globe,
Soon we won't be able to go out,
And if the shimmering snow falls again,
It will fall only on us,
It will burn only our eyes,
It will melt only our faces,
Only we will be snowcookies.

If we're covered in spiderwebs,
You're the spider unaware of being a spider,
And I'm a fly on a yo-yo-like string,
I'm only going up and down, up and down,
When I hit the ground I think how I love you,
When I feel your legs I think how I hate you.

A small world,
A small world indeed.
You, standing still
Me, somehow cursed
Unable to get out for the time being
And a school of lost sparks,
Whom I cannot show the way,
As I have never found it myself.

I love you. I love you not.
I love you. I love you not.
I love you. I love you not.
I love you. I love you not.

...but there's no point to this game.
Here, the flowers have an endless number of petals
Once I tear out one, another's sprouted already,
And I cannot seem to be able to get an answer.
Here, you're a queen bee who never wanted to be one,
And I'm a miserable bug looking at you,
Wanting some honey every now and then,
Then snapping out of it, hitting the hive's walls,
Thinking such honey indeed is lethal,
And all the snowcookies are full of it.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.