KOTAČI TIŠINE WHEELS OF SILENCE

The World Changed Its Skin This Morning

The world put on a thin layer of cold crystal this morning. Just a few millimeters of that fragile silence fell from the dark night sky, enough to change the face of the landscape and confirm the presence of winter. The landscape turned into a negative of an old photograph – stripped, true, BW.

GRAY MESSENGERS AND INVISIBLE STATICS

On the edge of the old school's white roof, where we once learned about linear paths, pigeons crouch in a huddled mass. Their stillness overlooks a silent Pitomača, while a heavy frequency of the unspoken is felt in the air.

There is that specific noise created by what remains trapped in the walls; an acoustic fog that roars louder than any engine, trying to slow down every attempt at movement. But, one doesn't pass through that fog by shouting, but by the rhythm created beneath the feet.

RITUAL OF PRESENCE: A WALK THROUGH LEAD

We set off into the cool whiteness, the usual small crew that refuses to admit defeat to inertia:

• Golden Radar (Felix), whose senses defy physics and catch vibrations we are yet to learn.
• He, one of the three carriers of my blood, breathing next to me in a tempo that cuts the air into pieces.
• Five kilometers. Fifty-eight minutes.

It wasn't just a distance; it was a victory over statics. A firm, solid tempo through air that doesn't bite, but wakes the flesh from its winter sleep. It was that precious flash of authenticity - the day's highlight - proof that even the smallest turn of a wheel (or a step) is enough to beat the grayness.

UNIVERSAL SIGNPOST:
When you feel the invisible walls tightening, don't ask for permission to move. Five kilometers in silence is worth more than a thousand in a crowd, because real rhythm is born in resistance.

ECHOES OF SAFETY AND THE FORENSICS OF VANISHING

Returning to ground zero brought an encounter with an object that holds the codes of childhood. The sight of my blue rubber slippers on the bathroom floor summoned that favorite sound: shhh-shhh.

It’s not just an ordinary sound of footwear; it's a frequency of safety that once meant returning to ground zero where you are unconditionally loved. Today, that sound flickers in the empty room, turning indifferent plaster into a monument to what once was.

But on the studio wall, where shadows break, a canvas preserves her hand holding a rosary. I dissected that moment when life had already spilled into eternity, catching the scar of time in which her light went out and passed into an eternity where it glows – glows and flickers, flickers and flickers.... Painting is soul forensics – an act by which a moment is frozen to understand its power, not just its shape.

GHOST IN THE MACHINE

While the speakers pump out lyrics about what must not be ignored, I admit: the gears of inner silence skipped one crucial beat today, leaving me in the space between notes where sound breaks. It’s not a fall; it’s a raw trace of one's own existence. Because being "out of beat" means you are searching for your own melody in a world of straight lines.

1. Find your pace. Even five kilometers through cold crystal is a declaration of independence.
2. Value the scars. Every canvas, every track in the snow is evidence that you were there.
3. Listen to the echo. Safety is not in the walls, but in the frequency you carry within.

Today, navigation might be under the influence of winter, but the compass still points forward.

Listen to the pauses between notes. There lies the truth that cold crystal tries to hide. Press play and walk in my shoes through the ground zero of existence.

June 2026 sounds like science fiction. Like a date on a food can you save for an atomic war. It’s far. Too far. And we are here. Stuck in December.

I look at this ornament. I don’t see a decoration. I see a "Palantír". I see a non-blinking eye, a sphere that absorbs the room and returns it to us – distorted. That’s the physics of a convex mirror, they would say. But tonight, it’s the only truth in the room.

We are all here. Accounted for. In the frame. Family. A holy word spoken with too much sugar this time of year, to hide the bitterness. We stand in front of the tree, smiling for the audience, wrapped in the cellophane of expectations.

But look into the red sphere. Look closely. In that reflection, our faces are stretched. The smiles are grotesque. The room bends as if under the pressure of depth. In that red mist, I see what we hide behind Christmas songs and lights – I see people acting out life instead of living it. I see "project management" instead of emotion. I see a vacuum where nothing grows, only aesthetically maintained on life support.

This bauble is evidence. It shows that this glitter around us is just cheap scenery. A distortion of reality. We are not these smiling extras. We are those distorted characters in the reflection – cramped, deformed by compromises, starving for air.

That’s why I need June. Not as a vacation. But as a vision correction. I need Wheels of Silence to straighten the image. I need that brutal, straight line of asphalt to cancel out this curvature in which we are suffocating. I need the wind in my chest to blow away this stale air of cinnamon and false security.

Until then? Until then, I sit in the corner and observe. Logging the coordinates of the cellophane cracking. I don’t go fast.