[D_06 // KAPITULACIJA I RENESANSA // LOKACIJA: BUNKER (PITOMAČA) // STATUS: REKALIBRACIJA SUSTAVA / POVRATAK BOJAMA // CAPITULATION AND RENAISSANCE // LOCATION: BUNKER (PITOMAČA) // STATUS: SYSTEM RECALIBRATION / RETURN TO COLORS]
░▒▓█ I. JUTRO POSLIJE (BIJELA ZASTAVA) █▓▒░
Probudio sam se i znao. Nije trebalo ni stati na nogu. Ona mitska struna, Ahilova tetiva, odlučila je da je jučerašnjih 5k bio čin objave rata. Jutros je potpisala primirje. Jednostrano.
Gledam scenu u dnevnom boravku. Izgleda kao mjesto zločina ili oltar nekog čudnog kulta. Štake - stari znanci iz 2022. - izvučene su iz naftalina. Tu je i bijela zastava. Doslovno. Predaja? Ne, samo strateško povlačenje. A na jastuku... ne leži glava. Na jastuku, kao kraljevski dragulj, leži kazeta bicikla. Zupčanici. Metalni bog kojemu se sada moram moliti jer asfalt više ne prima moje tenisice. To je poruka samom sebi: Ako ne možeš trčati, vrtit ćeš se.
Tišina poraza. Metal na plišu. Čekanje.
░▒▓█ II. DOKAZNI MATERIJAL (RUDOLPH JE KRIV) █▓▒░
U ruci držim dokaz jučerašnje gluposti. "Run Run Rudolph". Jučer sam napisao, danas ponavljam: Zvuči kao dječja pjesmica. Ali težina medalje u ruci podsjeća me na cijenu jučerašnjih 5k". Dok gledam taj komad materije, razmišljam o njima. O Plemenu Novorođenih Nogu. Znate ih. To su oni koji cijelu godinu hiberniraju, a onda, kad prosinac zamiriše na kuhano vino i hype, odjednom otkriju da imaju donje ekstremitete. Navuku najskuplje tajice, kupe tenisice koje svijetle u mraku i jurišaju na 5K kao da bježe od lavine. Nisam dio tog cirkusa. Ne trčim kampanjski. Moji kilometri imaju godove. Ali ironija je okrutna - oni danas hodaju ponosno s upalom mišića, a ja, veteran, gledam kako mi gležanj otiče.
Sjećam se proročanstva iz 2022., onog "dobronamjernog" glasa: "Samo ti daj. Gledat ćemo te na Paraolimpijadi." Tada je bila zeka-peka. Danas, dok držim ovu medalju prljavim prstima, to zvuči kao karijerni plan.
░▒▓█ III. CRNA KULA (STATIČNI KOTAČ) █▓▒░
Vanjski svijet je zatvoren. Vrata se zaključavaju. U kutu sobe, ispod mojih slika, čeka on. Sobni bicikl. Sprava za mučenje koja ne vodi nikamo. Najskuplja vješalica za rublje u povijesti danas postaje moj jedini izlaz. Sjene na zidu plešu dok pedaliram u mjestu. Nema vjetra u kosi, nema promjene pejzaža. Samo znoj koji kapa na parket i zvuk zamašnjaka koji broji sekunde. Ovo je Buka u glavi pretvorena u Tišinu u nogama.
░▒▓█ IV. POVRATAK KISTU (AKRILNA TERAPIJA) █▓▒░
Ako noge šute, ruke moraju vrištati. Dugo su boje spavale. Fokus je bio na kadenci, na paceu, na otkucajima. Sada, kad je tijelo i opet prisilno parkirano, duh se vraća starom alatu. Akrilik. Miris boje. Potez kista koji ne traži dopuštenje tetive. Gledam svoje stare radove. Te žute ulice, te sjene ljudi koji hodaju (oni mogu hodati!). Slika "Be the Change" iz 2014. Danas mi se ruga, ali me i zove. Promjena nije uvijek izbor. Ponekad je promjena samo sila koja te natjera da sjedneš i uzmeš kist u ruke jer je to jedini način da ostaneš normalan. Vraćam se platnu. Vraćam se zamrzavanju trenutka.
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░▒▓█ V. IZVIĐAČKA JEDINICA I ARHIVA █▓▒░
Netko ipak mora van. Felix. Moj vjerni supatnik. Dok ja glumim ranjenog lava u kavezu, on preuzima patrolu. Njegov rep je jedini metronom koji danas trebam. On ne mari za moju ozljedu, on mari za mirise. Gledam ga - u njegovim očima nema osude što sam spor. Samo čista, dlakava prisutnost. I dok on spava nakon šetnje, ja kopam po arhivi. Medalje na zidu. Stari brojevi. To nije muzej prošlosti. To je gorivo za iduću tišinu.
Izgubljena je bitka, ali rat... rat se nastavlja drugim sredstvima. Bicikliranjem. Slikanjem. Fotkanjem. Core vježbama...
Kotači se i dalje vrte. Samo su promijenili dimenziju.
[ EN // DECRYPTED_SIGNAL: THE_MORNING_AFTER ]
I woke up and I knew. I didn't even have to step on my foot. That mythical string, the Achilles tendon, decided that yesterday's 5k was an act of war declaration. This morning, it signed a truce. Unilaterally.
I'm looking at the scene in the living room. It looks like a crime scene or an altar of some strange cult. The crutches – old acquaintances from 2022 – have been pulled out of mothballs. There is also the white flag. Literally. Surrender? No, just a strategic retreat.
And on the pillow... it's not a head lying there. On the pillow, like a royal jewel, lies a bike cassette. Gears. The metallic god I must now pray to because the asphalt no longer accepts my sneakers. It's a message to myself: If you can't run, you'll spin.
In my hand, I hold the evidence of yesterday's foolishness. "Run Run Rudolph." Yesterday I wrote it, today I repeat it: It sounds like a children's song. But the weight of the medal in my hand reminds me of the price of yesterday's 5k.
Looking at that piece of matter, I think about them. The Tribe of Newborn Feet. You know them. Those who hibernate all year long, and then, when December smells like mulled wine and hype, they suddenly discover they have lower extremities. They pull on the most expensive leggings, buy sneakers that glow in the dark, and charge at the 5K as if running from an avalanche.
I am not part of that circus. My kilometers have growth rings. But the irony is cruel – today they walk proudly with muscle soreness, while I, the veteran, watch my ankle swell. I remember the prophecy from 2022, that "well-meaning" voice: "Keep going. We'll be watching you at the Paralympics." Back then it was a joke. Today, holding this medal with dirty fingers, it sounds like a career plan.
The outside world is closed. Doors are locking. In the corner of the room, beneath my paintings, he waits. The indoor bike. A torture device that goes nowhere. The most expensive clothes rack in history today becomes my only exit.
Shadows dance on the wall while I pedal in place. No wind in my hair, no change of landscape. Just sweat dripping onto the parquet and the sound of the flywheel counting the seconds. This is the Noise in the head turned into Silence in the legs.
If the legs are silent, the hands must scream. For a long time, the colors slept. The focus was on cadence, on pace, on heartbeats. Now, when the body is forcibly parked once again, the spirit returns to the old tool. Acrylic.
The smell of paint. A brushstroke that doesn't ask the tendon for permission. I look at my old works. Those yellow streets, those shadows of people walking (they can walk!). The painting "Be the Change" from 2014. Today it mocks me, but it also calls me. Change isn't always a choice. Sometimes change is just a force that makes you sit down and pick up a brush because it's the only way to stay sane. I return to the canvas. I return to freezing the moment.
Someone has to go out, after all. Felix. My faithful companion. While I act like a wounded lion in a cage, he takes over the patrol. His tail is the only metronome I need today. He doesn't care about my injury; he cares about scents. In his eyes, there is no judgment for my slowness. Just pure, furry presence.
And while he sleeps after the walk, I dig through the archive. Medals on the wall. Old race numbers. It's not a museum of the past. It's fuel for the next silence.
The battle is lost, but the war... the war continues by other means. By cycling. By painting. By photographing. By core exercises... The wheels are still turning. They've just changed dimension.
