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.
- Find your pace. Even five kilometers through cold crystal is a declaration of independence.
- Value the scars. Every canvas, every track in the snow is evidence that you were there.
- 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.
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