.after'night

'People are crazy' he thought.

Matter of a fact, he did not mind it. In the back of his mind, an echo sounded his own freakish nature. "You are a hypocrite and a coward" a voice crept into his train of thoughts. Suddenly he was aware of the cold sweat slowly dripping down his back. He was sitting on his bed, alcohol breaking through his skin. A throbbing headache, and a subtle shiver: the night after.

You can spin hundreds of different stories, but the conclusion is always the same, a painful headache, and a weak shivering body. A loss of control. There is a fine line between ecstasy in being wild, and overdoing it. Most of the people overdo it, and again, I am one of them.

Three quarters later his bell rang. It sent a shrieking pain through his skull. He wasn't expecting anyone, but an innate feeling of guilt made him get out of his bed. Grabbing for everything he could for support, he finally reached the door.

.restrukturiranje strukture

digao se. i zacuo klicanje dece napolju. nije imalo imalo smisla. nista od ovoga. Soba je bila totalno pusta, svi su otisli. Bez blama su ostavili pljuge, pepeljare, neke obrnute naopacke, prazne case, neko djubre itd. Izazvalo mu je mucninu u stomaku. Pomisao na svu tu prljavstinu zatvrtela je sobu, iznova. Kratko je izdahnuo a zatim se zavalio nazad u krevet. 'Shta mi je ovo sve trebalo' pomislio je.

okrenuo se na bok u nadi da ce uspeti da se opusti i utone, pobegne, u san. 'Prokleta deca' izustio je. Kroz prozor, pored cistog, letnjeg, svetloplavog neba, koje je izgledalo kao prilepljeno na stagod da je stajalo iza njega, pirkao je blagi tajfun koji bi inace bio prijatan, ali u trenutnim okolnostima, bio je naporan. On nije hteo da vidi, cuje, mirishe, oseca.. To je sve zahtevalo napor, napor primanja svih tih informacija, napor njegovom telu da ih podeli, analizira i reaguje. A napor je bila poslednja stvar koju je zeleo.

david je bio jedino dete u familiji, koja se, posle teskog siromastva, iznenadno obogatila. U tom procesu integracije u 'vise' socijalne krugove, postojao je ceo niz 'prihvatljivog' ponasanja, kojeg su odjednom, svi, morali da se pridrzavaju. Od malih formalnih pozdrava, preko dosadnih razgovora, u kojem, ni jedna strana nije zvucala zaintresovana za ovu drugu. Njegovi roditelji, su se izuzetno trudili da zadovolje sve... osim sami sebe. Kada je odrastao, sve vise je izrazavao buntovnicki karakter. Nije trajalo dugo pre nego sto je otisao iz kuce. Nije ga bilo briga u kakvu skolu, u koju zemlju, niti koja je buducnost koja proizilazi iz njegovih odluka. Hteo je da se skloni. Da ode, i da pocne sam na svome.

'zakljuchano kljuchanje.

sedim u zatamnjenoj sobi. Da li da odem i da trcim ili da nastavim da sedim ovde? Gomila pitanja nastavljaju da naviru, i pasivno donosim odluku. Razne stvari mi prolaze kroz glavu, razni delici zivota: posao, ljubav, stanovanje, zezanje, i sve ima kontradikciju u sebi. Mogu da nadjem problem u bilo cemu. Mogu. Uvek vidim da bi nekako sve moglo bolje. Postoji ta iluzija, ocekivanje? Kroz otvorena vrata terase dopire na trenutak deo nekog narodnjaka. Dovoljno dugacko da me ponovo pronadje fleshback proslosti. Uhvacen sam u jedan veliki lup secanja i emocija koji se nadovezuje na sadasnjost, i vrti me. Vrti me skroz. Imam unutrasnji, prirodni, nagon da sve promenim. Polomim? Osecam se kao ni na nebu ni na zemlji. Nisam u oblacima. Niti me je zivot ugenjcio skroz u zemlju. To je proslost. I upravo to. U tome je problem. Lebdim. Ne mogu da opipam stvari oko sebe. Ni jedna stvar nije cvrtsta. Relativnost. Jedino sto je cvrsto, su odluke i stvari koje radim.

Totalno proseravanje. Znam dubinu stvari. Ovo je samo faza. Razlika je samo u tome kojoj kolicini cu da se u'vatim za nju, i flegmaticno prepustim. Cim napravim odluku. Neku malu odluku i vidim smisao u njoj. Kratkotrajan smisao. Sledi presek ovog stanja. Status quo. Govori iskustvo, a ne emocijonalno razmishljanje. Skontao sam. Presek. Ne verujem u to, ali iz istog iskustva znam da to radi. Mogu da ostanem ovde i da se prepustam godinama, neki to rade, ali vec sam to pokusao, i to nije put. Ne za mene. Ustao sam - navukao patike, ustao sa sofe, na kojoj je ostao mali laptop, jedini izvor svetlosti u zatamnjenoj sobi i otisao da istrazujem ostatak puta..

dizai'n, etcetera.

Tekstualni refreni, pesme slika u koje uvlace, samo ako pricas istim stilom. A stil, pa. Pitanje srece, izbora, odrastanja ili emocijalnog sastava. Mozda sve zajedno. Kreativni smo i zelimo da zivimo. Buncam, ponovo.

Stilovi, i moda. Nova muzika koja je totalno in. Dizajn koji vlada. Polako. Uvek je bio tu. Ali znas da kada harvardov journal press, i top biznis skole posvete 4 uzastopna broja dizajnu, nesto se desava.

Perfekcionizam. Verovatno u stilu, sve mora da bude cakum pakum. Malo je veliko. Meko je tvrdo. Da bitno je sta radis. Kako, je ono sto izdvaja. Prezentacija. Sve mora da bude u jednom toku. Dizajnirano sto bi rekli. Smisao, namena i razlog. Viktorijanski detalji nisu bili samo nabacivani, tek tako. Prica. Prica je sve vise, vise, vise i vise vazna. Ako nesto ima smisao, razlog i neku namenu, onda mora da ima i pricu. Kako drugacije da se objasni. Crtanjem? Mozda.., ali ne uvek. Naravno. Mi smo ljudska bica, i da, volimo da pricamo sa i o drugima i da zalimo druge, sakriveno u 'pomoci za nekoga', rekao je Niche - da bi se osecali u moci. Nije bio prvi koji je to rekao, naravno. Dublje, ono sto je zaista, je empatija. Empatija, saosecanje sa nekim. Ne postoji sud. Cista emocija. Osecaj zapravo. A ako verujemo naucnicima, svako osecanje, a tek misao, se fizicki meri. Meko postaje tvrdo..

a igra.

igra.

moras da volis da se igras sa stvarima.

ne moras ustvari =

moras da pustis da izadje. svi volimo da se igramo.

svi smo bili deca. nije sve ozbiljno kao sto izgleda.

.

.

.

.

.

heathrow.

Blurred mirrors everywhere. Screens and polished surfaces. I am walking forward. My mind is not at its sharpest state. Everything is made of metal or glass, at least that is what the impression should be. I am guessing all those cups of wine did eventually leave an effect on me. People are walking by, big luggages trailing them. They are all of different cultures, or at least origin. The variety astounds me. It was always around me, nothing new. But for whatever reason, right now, it is striking to me. Furthermore, it is their expression which draws me. Most of them are worried. Puzzled faces built upon a machine of thoughts and doubts, questions which will just raise more questions until there is a change of subject. They do not notice me. Even though, as I walk gently, I stare at each and one of them. So wound up in their dialogue, but soon, I have a feeling, they will not even know where they are going. I am not better, I am the same. But I like to notice and observe. Not judge. Sometimes it is hard, but whenever it happens I just find all the arguments of why that person should not be judged, why no one deserves such a treatment. At least I believe so. I am convinced that most of the times, our brain is like a monkey, it just jumps to conclusions, and the saddest part is that, we fall for it. I walk by a big family, originating from Africa, I guess. They are standing and waiting for something. About 12 people, children, women and men, As I pass by, I notice the 3 oldest looking men, scalding the children for doing what children do. They are dressed up in full suits, and I find that ridiculous., as the remains of the family is dressed up in clothes more depicting their culture. I am laughing inside. Why the hell would you ever accept those values, west is as screwed up as any other. I shake my head and presume that people still believe that west is better than their own rich, meaningful and beautiful culture. Propaganda!. It brightens my mood but a bit. Not because of them, but for the phenomenon. I am on my way to home. Yet I am possibly searching for every reason not to go home. There is no hope. Without money, I cannot even relax in the park. The rain these days is quite stubborn. I pass by an Indian father taking a photo of his son, and I grab for my phone. An invitation from a friend. I quickly evaluate the proposition in my mind and decide to go. It certainly cannot be worse than being home. Sitting in the room. The room which I know too well. While being there my thoughts are bound to wonder and put her in my mind again. Pleasure and pain, mixed in a violent stream of images. All irrational. Chaotic. Unreal and imaginary. I understand, and for this, I prefer not to be the victim of my own brain. I notice the sign which marks the path to the Underground, and I swiftly turn left down the stairs..

'summer rain

It is a warm summer night. It is raining. The drops feel cold against my skin covered in a blue thin shirt. I am walking, keeping to the left side of the curb. I have never figured out if people should walk on the left side, mirroring how they drive around here, or it applies only to cars. Nevertheless, I do not make a big fuss about it as the street is a ghost town. There is only me, and the rain. Something in the evening is pulling me. I cannot quite explain it. The rain is getting harder, and my blue shirt is slowly becoming a dark blue shirt. I do not feel like going home. There is nothing there for me, I know it way too well. I suppose it is a trick of mind but I feel how that place cages me, and I want everything else but to be caged right now. I would rather get lost in this summer storm, in this secretive city. But, for some reason, I still continue heading home. I finally arrive at the the bus stop. My shoulders are wet, but I do not mind. I am not quite my usual self. I lost the I. I want to observe, to look, and to listen, things which are beyond my control. Be in ave with the stubborn, ruthless life. No one really cares. I am convinced that caring today, in this society, is something deformed and wicked. People are sitting at the small red bench. Couple of Arab guys. After exchanging glances, they stand up, and jump on the bus which just arrived. Its passing-by splashes the water, creating a big wave, but it only reaches the top of my wet shoes. I am alone again. The rain is getting stronger. I realize that I do not want to be sitting. My body wants to move. So I stand up, glance to my right, searching for the bus, which is not there. Heading for the next bus stop, I leave the cover of the little plastic roof. By now I am convinced that I enjoy moving. Perfection of physics. It gives me a sensation of lightness and transparency. An individual, who is not really an individual. I am the world around me, and it is I. I am conscious of it, and I enjoy every look, smell, touch and feeling of it, but I am still detached. I hate feeling heavy, I notice. The wind somehow changes the direction. Now the rain is heading straight to my face. The truth is, I do not mind it, not at all. I slow down my pace as I cannot see properly. It enables me to feel the drops tapping against my skin, my cold toes snuck into the wet shoes and the sound of occasional car passing by, more intensely. As I continue walking down, I notice that once again I am alone. By the light from the side posts, I notice how hard is the rain. It reminds me of snow for split of second. It flashes the eternity I have spent in the snow. It now seems like another life. I notice the bus stop further down the street, even though I can barely see. As if someone is splashing a water gun in my face, purification, I think. Not to say that I felt dirty in any way, be it metaphor or not. I am wet. The shirt one size above mine, is now stuck to my body, perfectly depicting the lines of my average shape, both the un and attractive aspects. Unaware, I grab for my phone, now completely wet, checking for a missed call, a message, an effort of reaching me. The same old display. But I am used to it. I put the phone back in the pocket, and continue walking....