DATUM: 08/01/2026
[D_17: ARCHIVE_LOG: SOUNDTRACK '92 // DIPLOMA IZ PREŽIVLJAVANJA // DIPLOMA IN SURVIVAL]
[ SOUNDTRACK '92 ]
STATUS: RECALLING_MEMORY // SUBJECT: CLASS_OF_92
DATA_SOURCE: SEATTLE_APATHY_WAVE
Mirišalo je na Teen Spirit. Bila je 1992. Kurt Cobain je derao grlo na radiju, vrišteći himnu apatije jedne generacije. Ali mi... mi nismo bili ta generacija. Mi nismo imali luksuz američke dosade. Bili smo maturanti '92. Zvuči kao naslov nekog lošeg coming-of-age filma, ne? Samo što u našem filmu nije bilo maturalnog plesa u dvorani ukrašenoj balonima. Bilo je zvučnih sirena, podruma, zamračenja…
Bili smo (na neki način i ostali) "izgubljena generacija". Kakav eufemizam. Nismo se mi izgubili. Nas su pokrali. Naprasno nam oduzeli najljepše dane mladosti. Kao kad te netko baci u hladnu Dravu prije nego si naučio plivati. Tih smo dana učili o životu kroz opću opasnost. Anksioznost tada nije bila moderna riječ s TikToka. Bila je kamen u želucu. Konstantna, tupa nelagoda. Osjećaj da je tlo pod nogama zapravo živi pijesak. Maturirali smo s diplomom iz preživljavanja.
Bili smo (na neki način i ostali) "izgubljena generacija". Kakav eufemizam. Nismo se mi izgubili. Nas su pokrali. Naprasno nam oduzeli najljepše dane mladosti. Kao kad te netko baci u hladnu Dravu prije nego si naučio plivati. Tih smo dana učili o životu kroz opću opasnost. Anksioznost tada nije bila moderna riječ s TikToka. Bila je kamen u želucu. Konstantna, tupa nelagoda. Osjećaj da je tlo pod nogama zapravo živi pijesak. Maturirali smo s diplomom iz preživljavanja.
[ ATTENTION: REALITY_STRIKE // BANIJSKA RATNA PRASKOZORJA ]
Sjećam se glazbe. Glazba je trebala biti bijeg, ali rat je uspio kontaminirati i to. Brothers in Arms. Dire Straits. Mark Knopflerova gitara koja plače. Nekad sam obožavao tu stvar. Melankolija koja te grli. A onda... Gordan Lederer. Onaj snimak. Banijska ratna praskozorja. Kamera koja pada u travu. Nebo koje se vrti. Pucanj koji prekida kadar, ali ne i snimanje. I ta pjesma u pozadini.
Tog dana, Brothers in Arms je prestala biti pjesma. Postala je himna smrti. Knopflerova gitara više nije svirala note; svirala je gelere. Svaki put kad bih je čuo, nisan vidio spot na MTV-u. Vidio sam Ledererove noge u travi. Vidio sam rat koji ne bira tko drži pušku, a tko kameru. Prestao sam je voljeti. Morao sam. Jer je boljela previše. Bila je previše stvarna.
Danas, dok vrtim pedale kroz tišinu, još uvijek čujem taj riff. Ali ne dam mu da me stigne. Maturant '92. još uvijek bježi. Samo što sada, umjesto od granata, bježi od sjećanja. I Smells Like Teen Spirit? Danas mi taj duh ne miriše na dezodorans. Miriše na barut.
Tog dana, Brothers in Arms je prestala biti pjesma. Postala je himna smrti. Knopflerova gitara više nije svirala note; svirala je gelere. Svaki put kad bih je čuo, nisan vidio spot na MTV-u. Vidio sam Ledererove noge u travi. Vidio sam rat koji ne bira tko drži pušku, a tko kameru. Prestao sam je voljeti. Morao sam. Jer je boljela previše. Bila je previše stvarna.
Danas, dok vrtim pedale kroz tišinu, još uvijek čujem taj riff. Ali ne dam mu da me stigne. Maturant '92. još uvijek bježi. Samo što sada, umjesto od granata, bježi od sjećanja. I Smells Like Teen Spirit? Danas mi taj duh ne miriše na dezodorans. Miriše na barut.
[ ACCESS_TRANSLATION // EN ]
It smelled of Teen Spirit. It was 1992. Kurt Cobain was screaming his lungs out on the radio, screaming the anthem of apathy for a generation that didn't know what to do with itself. But we... we weren't that generation. We didn't have the luxury of American boredom. We were the '92 graduates. Sounds like the title of some bad coming-of-age movie, doesn't it? Except in our movie, there was no prom in a ballroom decorated with balloons. There were sirens, basements, blackouts…
We were (and in a way, still are) the “lost generation.” What an euphemism. We weren't lost. We were robbed. Our best days of youth were snatched away from us. Like being thrown into the cold Drava River before you've learned to swim. In those days, we learned about life through sheer danger. Anxiety back then wasn't a trendy word from TikTok. It was a lump in your stomach. A constant, dull unease. The feeling that the ground beneath your feet was actually quicksand. We graduated with a diploma in survival.
I remember the music. The music was supposed to be an escape, but the war managed to contaminate even that. Brothers in Arms. Dire Straits. Mark Knopfler's crying guitar. I used to love that thing. A melancholy that hugs you. And then... Gordan Lederer. That recording. The Banija war dawn. The camera falling into the grass. The spinning sky. A gunshot cutting the frame, but not the footage. And that song in the background.
That day, Brothers in Arms stopped being a song. It became a hymn to death. Knopfler's guitar wasn't playing notes anymore; it was playing shrapnel. Every time I heard it, I didn't see the video on MTV. I saw Lederer's legs in the grass. I saw a war that doesn't care who's holding a rifle and who's holding a camera. I stopped loving it. I had to. Because it hurt too much. It was too real.
Today, as I pedal through the silence, I still hear that riff. But I don't let it catch up to me. The '92 grad is still running. Except now, instead of from grenades, he's running from memories. And Smells Like Teen Spirit? Today, that spirit doesn't smell like deodorant to me. It smells like gunpowder.
We were (and in a way, still are) the “lost generation.” What an euphemism. We weren't lost. We were robbed. Our best days of youth were snatched away from us. Like being thrown into the cold Drava River before you've learned to swim. In those days, we learned about life through sheer danger. Anxiety back then wasn't a trendy word from TikTok. It was a lump in your stomach. A constant, dull unease. The feeling that the ground beneath your feet was actually quicksand. We graduated with a diploma in survival.
I remember the music. The music was supposed to be an escape, but the war managed to contaminate even that. Brothers in Arms. Dire Straits. Mark Knopfler's crying guitar. I used to love that thing. A melancholy that hugs you. And then... Gordan Lederer. That recording. The Banija war dawn. The camera falling into the grass. The spinning sky. A gunshot cutting the frame, but not the footage. And that song in the background.
That day, Brothers in Arms stopped being a song. It became a hymn to death. Knopfler's guitar wasn't playing notes anymore; it was playing shrapnel. Every time I heard it, I didn't see the video on MTV. I saw Lederer's legs in the grass. I saw a war that doesn't care who's holding a rifle and who's holding a camera. I stopped loving it. I had to. Because it hurt too much. It was too real.
Today, as I pedal through the silence, I still hear that riff. But I don't let it catch up to me. The '92 grad is still running. Except now, instead of from grenades, he's running from memories. And Smells Like Teen Spirit? Today, that spirit doesn't smell like deodorant to me. It smells like gunpowder.
[ KRONOLOGIJA_OPTIKE // OPTICAL_CHRONOLOGY ]
SCANNING_SEQUENCE: 1998 — 2025
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LOG_ENTRY_1998: Vrijeme kad je voda bila jedini medij koji sam razumio. Nije bilo asfalta, samo mirna površina koja nije tražila odgovor. Ovaj akvarel je zapis o nevinosti mog biološkog sustava prije nego što je postao "stroj".
// A blueprint of innocence. Before the biological machine began its race.
// A blueprint of innocence. Before the biological machine began its race.
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LOG_ENTRY_2017: Eksplozija unutar vakuuma. Pokušavao sam naslikati krik koji se ne čuje. Ovo je bio trenutak kada je napor postao moj jedini identitet, a boja jedini dokaz da sustav još uvijek pulsira.
// Explosion in a vacuum. Painting the unheard scream of a system under pressure.
// Explosion in a vacuum. Painting the unheard scream of a system under pressure.
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LOG_ENTRY_2025: Nova frekvencija. Linije su sada oštre kao rub asfalta. Više ne slikam kaos; slikam put kroz njega. Vidim sjenke, vidim strukturu, vidim cilj. Ovo je moj vizualni manifest pripreme za Budimpeštu.
// The clarity of asphalt. A visual manifesto. Preparing the frequency for the mission.
// The clarity of asphalt. A visual manifesto. Preparing the frequency for the mission.
[ MATERIALIZATION // ARTIFACT_ADOPTION ]
Ovi fizički artefakti traže svoj **stalni dom (kolekciju)**. Ako želiš da jedan od ovih originalnih radova postane dio tvog privatnog prostora, zatraži pristup enkripciji.
// These physical artifacts are seeking a permanent home. Request access below.
[ SIGNAL_UPLINK_REQUIRED // POTREBNA_POVRATNA_VEZA ]
Izložio sam vam svoje unutrašnje faze. Sada me zanima tvoja frekvencija. Koji od ovih svjetova trenutno najviše treba tvoj osobni prostor kako bi uspostavio ravnotežu?
// Which of these worlds does your personal space need most right now?
[ SIGNAL_CHECK // ATMOSPHERE_SYNC ]
[ FREKVENCIJA_PLEMENA // LIVE_DATA ]
Ovo nije milostinja, ovo je **gorivo za prijenos signala**.
Održavanje stroja, kotača i ove arhive zahtijeva energiju. Ako rezoniraš s ovom frekvencijom, postani izvor snage iza sljedeće objave.
// This is not charity; it is fuel for the transmission. Support the mission to keep the signal active.
INJECT FUEL
/// UBACI GORIVO ///