The dawn has arrived so suddenly. The light orchestrates orange and peachy harmony on the walls, creating a warm, soothingly optimistic ambient. Life, after eons of time, takes a shape of dignity, just like the consensus of objective reality assigns to it. This ambient drama forces my arse finally of the bed. In this melancholic morning beauty, I spontaneously start trying to remember what had happened, in my inner and outer life. How long have I slept? When I fell asleep? I come to conclusion that I was clean even before I fell asleep. The memories are very fuzzy, I remember everything and nothing. But some details have cut deeply into my psyche that I can deduce the basic structure of my life – some months of merciless bingeing, cameras, walls, the dark descent towards certain death like some First World War foot soldier running to meet his destiny, the machine gun, certain to fill him with lead, all for the glory of some abstract entity that happens to govern over him. Led by donkeys indeed. I wonder, did they had a chance to just peacefully observe some dawn like this one, the dawn that awakes a will to live, it’s light bringing up childhood memories. The time we were programmed to firmly believe that life is pure, orgasmic beauty, the mysterious gift from pure divine mercy. I watch through the windows this magnificent birth of light. The east side of Šestinski dol is still sleeping in the shadows, but, still, slowly soaking in the velvety gentle hues of my west side, the opposite hill, flooded with this unbearably euphoric moment of Light’s victory. One to which I don’t dare to give in from synaptic, engraved fear that all this magic will just disappear. Then the hole in my guts will reappear, the headache to boot, and this dawning magnificence will, in plain sight, transform into something malevolent, and I will psychologically unravel in a perversely self-fulfilling prophecy of demise, a peachy dawn turns to black mass. I shake off this familiar self-destructive procedure that my mind forced on me. Everything I look, touch, smell, gives the scent of so, so desperately awaited promise of the end of the nightmare. I make coffee, slice of bread scraped over with butter, take it all to the balcony touched by gentle spring warmth. I sit on a chair, legs up on the flowerbed full of bluebells, greedily opening up towards the newborn sun. Every muscle in my body is moaning from pleasure. The smile appears on its own, stretching into idiotic manifestation that I usually despise on others while walking hatefully down the streets. I look at the cup and remember a lesson from school about local and ambient colour of an object. Ray Tracing in real time. I dive into some half-witted vision of photons bouncing all over chaotically, but still creating this perfectly deterministic moment in time. I watch how Šestinski dol dissolves into atoms bombarded by trillions and trillions of photons. I finally realise that I closed my eyes. The inner picture becomes ever clearer, with every discreet step of transformation. The superstructures finally appear like a digitally processed signals, forming a three-dimensional model of the reality outside, forming itself by its own will, the binary permutations out of the central processing unit, orchestrated by cold poetry of computer code. I open my eyes and see exactly the same scene I saw with my eyes closed, all with a little worrying amount of detail. Peach, yes peach is the colour of this dawn, the intensity of orange softly infused with a precise dose of melancholy from which my frontal cortex has no defence, flooding, unchallenged, my deeper cerebral structures, primitive centres that no psychotherapist that I've talked to ever even came close to. My cognition is totally sidelined by the unstoppable ebb of emotions, demoted into some non-effectual bystander. My face is melting in this magic of morning, I feel vertical, cold, and tickly traces on my face. I swipe my face with my sleeve. My eyes are again closed with my inner vision still a very faithful, digital reproduction of reality. I clearly see the vale beneath with peachy light, the most beautiful thing that can surprise, and so flood my mind with inexplicable intensity of melancholy. Hey, child! You from countless pictures in family albums, you little, talented kid! So young, and already melancholic, never truly smiling, like you saw through these adult’s lies about life, how it’s full of possibilities, you that can already tell an alcoholic by his breath. Hills, atoms, photons, everything bursting with energy like it's all gonna break up and dissolve into nothing, but still disciplined by the forces of nature, made to create a picture, this magnificent dawn. The world that constantly oscillates, under the caring light of Zagreb's dawn, finally materialised just as they promised to the kid in the photos. You! Be careful, it's a lie, the world is not the colour of peach, don't believe them, there's no dawn, nor hills and vales. Look out kid, so you don't end up on a balcony one day, some decades later, believing them, with totally messed up of emotional triggers of your mind. My tears, flowing uncontrollably reflect the light that washes over the undulating structures inside this hologram. This dawn, what with coffee, bread, and butter, on a balcony, the most real dawn of my life, maybe the last endurable dawning of my life. Go kid! Go into space, seek for a successful experiment of civilisation! The sun is drying the traces on my face, I let myself fill up with lively warmth. On a branch of an oak, which took to the heights right in front of my balcony, there landed a woodpecker, taping his beak on the branch, left, right. He looks me straight in the eye. I feel an urgency to look away. He looks me once again, turning his head this and that way, and then suddenly leaves the scene just as he entered it. He flies off into this last beautiful dawn, soaked with the colour of peach.

Such is the nature of you, that you break my heart just when it's full of joy, but still, I wish for more of your soothing presence, to grace my reality of late.

... going around the Boudhanath Stupa, every finish a new beginning, we wonder if we'll ever wish to go a straight line again...

What order or chaos rules beneath the grass, I fear is unimaginable. Indescribable, only observable, recorded and imperfectly replayed in documentaries as a story of bugs and plants, soil and it's life, unrepeatable and unreliable, a poem more than prose.

In lower registers, but equally disordered, still, with a bit of drama in the resulting middle.

Mumble, mumble, something, something... until Ritual is over

Drumming in the East, ever nearer, as the light gets brighter, they stir the dust carefully placed by Night in quiet boredom of the sullen dark.

The spine stretching from one horizon to the opposite. Up in the sky, some call it "The way marked by spilled milk", some, in Balkans, call it the "Best man's Straw". Why "Best man's"? No effing idea. People eh? It's funny to juxtapose such simple folkloric idioms with abstract ideas of massive accretion disks, created by the force of gravity, with huge, hungry black holes in the middle, gobbling it all up, like some insatiable Troll, borrowed right back from folklore. Which explanation is more real, to people that think, perfectly legitimately, of the Sun just as a small circle of light in the ceiling that's hue is quite light blue.

... and no distance or law of causality is to disturb their intertwined fates. These pianos certainly don't seem very connected but their interplay seems entangled.

When we were living under the sun, we were hiding from the environment that, with the passing of time, we came to understand. We developed a concept of calculus using our fingers as digits, a calendar, first by noticing the regularities of celestial and atmospheric phenomena. All that we needed to do was to look, see, experience, internalize and finally to structure this sensory puzzle, in a way that consistently makes sense and forms a steady base for our planning of the future. But, with the growing complexity of our cognitive structure, our plain logic of seeing-is-believing needed a booster. So, we started to rely on inferring, then, to cut through the bullshit, we developed intuition, then hunches and itches, and so on. Our ability to see through this ever-increasing web of non-instantly certifiable facets of truth and its’ facsimiles has developed into intelligence. As intelligence developed, questioning everything became a cornerstone for science, the fines tool for understanding and searching for unknown. To conquer the Unknown became a goal of its own, so we had to disperse and specialize into, always smaller and smaller, parts of unknown. Soon, we had to rely on machines to help us create models for theories we couldn’t dream to solve alone in our lifetimes. Soon the truth became scrambled, as puzzle inside a puzzle, information so compartmentalised we couldn’t intuitively make sense of it without interdisciplinary efforts. Symbols became like pronouns for whatever was too long to write and remember. Then symbols became reality on its own, with symbols replacing other symbols, permanent fluidity of context changing the meaning of concepts in an instant, creating orders and instances of symbols for every shift of paradigm, which in turn started changing daily, hourly, from second to second, until everything, however unverifiable, became “possible”, then true. This complex of symbolism became so confusing that anything recognisable became inevitably true. We forgot to question. I don’t know why, but I rest my hope in younger generations, growing up in this mess to become naturally prone to navigate the fake and true and discard stupidity with ease. We, today, are too polarised to know the riddle of recognising bullshit, when we step in it. Who can say they know the truth? Is there truth? Who can say that they can see through the unimaginable superstructure of intent behind the info that we get to “know”? I sort of navigate through my life with my innate sense, but this sense could be created, partly or wholly, again, by some unknown intent itself. I can’t honestly guarantee I’m right. I don’t want to. You’ll have to believe me or not.