~ A blue-eyed professor ~

Bulky and wide, that blue-eyed professor always seemed innocent, gentle and dreamy, but her other face, sarcastic and envious, rarely anyone could see. Glued for her thoughts, it always moved with her as a loyal dog that never left his master. Behind the thinly framed glasses and blue eyes, hungry and thirsty someone else’s pain and restlessness, a dark world was hiding. Nobody knew about it, her irrepressible hunger, which was intensified in the small hours of the night. In those small hours, in company of cakes and snacks, she quietly created another, parallel world, in which, torn between questions and answers, she lived far from reality, family and friends. In it, she lived others’ moments, ups and downs, love and goodbyes. She went through some strange, nonsensical phases in which she forced her to create, to leave a trace, even if it was the greatest stupidity and failure. Except for the dark circles under the eyes, which became more and more noticeable, nothing else indicated that something was happening to her. Curiosity began to ruin her. Envy swallowed the last crumbs of her conscience. Everyday entertainment has occupied her life increasingly and pretended to grow into something serious. Malice, dressed in sweetness and gentleness, began to reveal itself more and more. Sickly obsessed with her virtual success a blue-eyed professor was processing others’ work and compiling a new one from them. At those moments of enthusiasm, her blue eyes turned into a restless, hungry sea, which swallowed up every hardly built, beautiful sailboat. This restless sea with years has become an endless ocean of stolen thoughts and phrases. Her spiritual desolation, the professor decorated with the emotions of sincere hearts. She hid her missed life through the dark chambers, tried to leave it behind, to erase it, but it persistently showed its presence in the voids and incomplete phrases behind which always stood, like prisoners, a long column of dots. The erased names of many authors were perceived in stolen words and photographs. Some of them, the most persistent, were trying to get out of captivity and say: “Hey, that’s me!” Unfortunately, there was no salvation for them. If they had not been so persistent, they might not have fallen into an ambush of a terrible, greedy mind, and perhaps they would not be in the hands of a woman who persuaded herself that all these inexhaustible sources were her and that she was born to determine their destinies and flows. She ran away from the quotations and never used them for fear of not discovering her secret sources. Tireless and eager for virtual success, she searched for old texts and photographs, which she thought were all forgotten for many years, but overlooked one very important thing, which might have been stolen by someone before her. Realizing that it was a hank that unwinds very slowly, she did not stop. She walked the wrong way, and she enjoyed this walk very much. Her poetry was slowly becoming a prose with dots, as if they were saying: “It will continue.” With every new sunset, her entertainment was increasingly taking on the characteristics of a profitable and serious business. She became so skilled in compiling new works that others’ words became more and more her. Nevertheless, she could not avoid the struggle with unknown phenomena and concepts, and this, unknown, constantly bothered her to arrange the collected material to the end. One part always stood unfinished as if it were waiting for a new author to complete it. She did not give up, she was patient. She knew that some new soul, from which she would loot, would appear. At those moments of anger, helplessness and anticipation, a faithful dog that never left his master, spoke from her. After many years, all that I once only perceived about her other face became reality. The ones told me she was chasing me in the small hours of the night. I recognized my sentences in “her” poems and prose. I was ashamed instead of her and in the name of all the students who believed her and wondered why so much effort and insomnia as she could simply erase my name and write her own. And then, I would just ashamed again instead of her and in the name of all those professors in whose rows she was sitting and I wondered again why did she just choose me?
A blue-eyed professor, author Suzana Stojanović, January 26, 2018