Public Republic

Dimiter Anguelov

Photo: Anyaka

For centuries in succession, this ferryman, lost in the crossing of the river, keeps trying to carry over my soul. It is not immortality that attracts him in that useless journey. His suffering kills me little by little. Exhausted, I shout at him in vain: “Wretched fellow, don’t you see that this river is so narrow that it can’t be crossed?!”

And I see myself again either on this or on the other bank. “Don’t you see that the river is too narrow for the boat? Don’t you feel that there is no boat at all? Make up your mind and set my soul free once and forever. Let the oars go. Otherwise you’ll ruin yourself, doomed to drift over the hard surface of a false river. Open your arms, relax, and find yourself for good!”

I roll onto my side and wake up. I see a long hair from a blond woman I have known for a short time. And I feel that my soul is still on this bank. But is this soul mine? Who can feel one’s own soul with such clarity?

Translated into English by Valentin Krustev and Donna Martell

Dimíter Ánguelov