Post by account_disabled on Mar 3, 2024 22:56:13 GMT -6
I first encountered State Security in my early youth. I was only 16 years old, a high school student who wrote poetry and read endless novels. There was a time when I thought my heart would break in two again with love for the brown-haired girl, but I could never tell her half a word about my boyish suffering. When I read Hugo, Shakespeare, Stendal and Honore de Balzac, I didn't know that the poet Martin Camaj existed, while I knew Gjergj Fishta by heart from my father, since I was a child.
I don't know from Cambodia WhatsApp Number Data where I am possessed with this conscience; from Baba or from Shakespeare? I remember that in the Marxism book I had written the name of a classmate of mine, transforming it into a foreign name. His name was Mark Mrisha, while I had transformed him into Mark Mriss, designing him through the pages of Marxism in interesting forms. The teacher of Marxism, after finishing the explanation to the class, always had the habit of taking the book of one of the students, showing the page of the lesson and the paragraphs where we should focus.
That day, hell, I had filled half the blank page of the book with the name of Mark Mriss, writing it in the most interesting forms. "What is this name? Who is Mark Mriss?” – the teacher asks me in a certain tone. "Teacher, it's Mark, Mark Mrisha" - I spoke in a low voice, standing up. "But what does the surname Mriss mean? Is it French, German, English or Italian?" - the teacher raised his voice. "Teacher, it's a game, I wrote it in vain, but I found it interesting how Mark's name sounds" - I spoke again, my voice trembling.
I don't know from Cambodia WhatsApp Number Data where I am possessed with this conscience; from Baba or from Shakespeare? I remember that in the Marxism book I had written the name of a classmate of mine, transforming it into a foreign name. His name was Mark Mrisha, while I had transformed him into Mark Mriss, designing him through the pages of Marxism in interesting forms. The teacher of Marxism, after finishing the explanation to the class, always had the habit of taking the book of one of the students, showing the page of the lesson and the paragraphs where we should focus.
That day, hell, I had filled half the blank page of the book with the name of Mark Mriss, writing it in the most interesting forms. "What is this name? Who is Mark Mriss?” – the teacher asks me in a certain tone. "Teacher, it's Mark, Mark Mrisha" - I spoke in a low voice, standing up. "But what does the surname Mriss mean? Is it French, German, English or Italian?" - the teacher raised his voice. "Teacher, it's a game, I wrote it in vain, but I found it interesting how Mark's name sounds" - I spoke again, my voice trembling.