[D_05 // ARTIKULACIJA BOLI // ARTICULATION OF PAIN]
Lokacija: Pitomača (Zona sumraka) Subjekt: Broj 67 Status: Overdrive
I. MIMIKRIJA (CRVENI PLIŠ)
Najbolje se sakriješ kad si najuočljiviji. Stavio sam crvenu kapu Djeda Božićnjaka. Smiješni komad crvenog pliša na mojoj glavi. Ljudi su vidjeli "Božićni duh". Ja sam vidio oklop.
Navukao sam "masku veselja" da prevarim demone u vlastitoj glavi. I upalilo je. Pustili su me da prođem. Ovaj put.
II. ARTEFAKT (2014.)
Nakon leda i asfalta - rođendanska proslava. I na zidu, sudar.
Moj stari rad. Akrilik. Godina 2014. "BE THE CHANGE..." Gledam te žute poteze. Gledam taj rukopis. To je pisao netko mlađi. Netko tko još nije znao da "promjena" nije uvijek izbor. Ponekad je promjena samo sila koja te savije do točke loma.
Taj "ja" iz 2014. je vikao bojama. Ovaj "ja" iz 2025. stoji pred slikom, s medaljom u džepu, i šuti. Zatvaram krug. Nekad sam slikao krik. Danas živim tišinu.
III. MORSEOV KOD ISPOD KOŽE
Sada, dok ovo pišem, svjetla su ugašena. Svijet misli da spavam. Ali moje tijelo šalje signale. Treba mi frekvencija koja je teža od tišine.
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Broj 67 je zgužvan. Medalja je hladna. Ali noga... noga je vruća.
Osjećam to dolje, u onom mitskom mjestu slabosti. Ne boli. To je nešto gore. Titra. Brrr...
Kao da je netko napeo nevidljivu žicu instrumenta kojeg ne znam svirati. To titranje... to je frekvencija preživljavanja. Tetiva ne traži pomoć. Ona mi šalje ime onoga što jesam:
-.- --- - .- -.-. .. / - .. ... .. -. .
Jesmo li pretjerali? Jesmo li probudili zmaja?
Ne znam. Noga bridi. To je cijena koju plaćaš kad ukradeš vatru bogovima trčanja. Lanegan pjeva, a ja samo slušam kako tijelo zuji.
End transmission.
[ EN // DECRYPTED_SIGNAL: OVERDRIVE_LOG ]
Location: Pitomača (Twilight Zone)
Subject: Number 67
Status: Overdrive
You hide best when you are most conspicuous. I put on a red Santa hat. A funny piece of red plush on my head. People saw the "Christmas spirit." I saw armor.
Today, the asphalt wasn't just the ground. It was an interlocutor. I wasn't running a race. I was leading a silent, brutal dialogue with gravity. "Run Run Rudolph 5K" sounds like a children's rhyme. But when you have a history of snapping, when your Achilles tendon remembers the sound of tearing, then every one of those 5,000 meters, or half a million of them, is absolutely no game. It's a minefield.
I put on a "mask of joy" to deceive the demons in my own head. And it worked. They let me pass. This time.
After ice and asphalt — a birthday celebration. And on the wall, a collision. My old work. Acrylic. Year 2014. "BE THE CHANGE..." I look at those yellow strokes. I look at that handwriting. It was written by someone younger. Someone who didn't yet know that "change" isn't always a choice.
Sometimes change is just a force that bends you to the breaking point. That "me" from 2014 screamed in colors. This "me" from 2025 stands before the painting, with a medal in his pocket, and is silent. I'm closing the circle. I used to paint the scream. Today I live the silence.
Now, as I write this, the lights are off. The world thinks I'm sleeping. But my body is sending signals. I need a frequency heavier than silence.
Number 67 is crumpled. The medal is cold. But the leg... the leg is hot. I feel it down there, in that mythical place of weakness. It doesn't hurt. It's something worse. It vibrates. Brrr...
As if someone tightened an invisible string of an instrument I don't know how to play. That vibration... it's the frequency of survival. The tendon isn't asking for help. It's sending me the name of what I am:
-.- --- - .- -.-. .. / - .. ... .. -. .
Did we overdo it? Did we wake the dragon? I don't know. The leg is tingling. That's the price you pay when you steal fire from the gods of running. Lanegan sings, and I just listen to the body buzzing.
