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.

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.