Art Meds pt. 1: Breakfast at Tiffany’s

There are some pieces of art – mostly movies and books, then music, paintings or photographs – that I must take a regular dose of. Continue reading




In response to The Daily Post’s weekly photo challenge: “Creepy.”

This is what you see when you’re reading Stephen King in the middle of the night with a flashlight – and are odd enough to get up and grab the camera.

The Beginning of the Beginning


To anyone who might be interested (even though this post is mainly an attempt to respond to my brain’s recent chaos), I’m now officially a freshman, freshly enrolled into the Belgrade University’s Faculty of Mathematics database as an astrophysics student. Yes, I passed my exam and I’m only just becoming aware of the longest summer of my life slowly passing by while my holiday task lists and future plans remain a pile of unanswered questions drowning in disorder. Far too poetic and even further too impractical.

First of all, I have made lists. Tones of them, categorized, coming in piles, written, typed, illustrated or merely sketched. Books to read, things to learn, music to listen to, DIY experiments to fail in attempting (and perhaps one or two to pull off). If I don’t do those now, I won’t come back to them ever again, and it’ll be too big a disappointment for me to handle when questioning inner self (which I tend to do a lot) and making further plans (which I tend to do maniacally).

Secondly, more down-to-earth practical and less inner-motivation philosophical, I need to stand on my own two feet. i.e. I need to leave my parents’ house, i.e. I need money, i.e. I need a summer job. Yes, I am that naive – excuse me, but I’ve got to start somewhere, and I have no better idea at the moment. The free time I have now, that same free time I won’t have when I start actively attending lectures and studying, is necessary, so I need to earn as much money as I can as fast as I can, and think of a way to earn money relatively permanently while studying. And that’s a priority.

Apart from that, I also need to live, have fun, and take some time just to do nothing or fuck about with my friends. I need people to share my happiness and chaos with – otherwise there’s no point to anything.

So it’ll be busy and fast and relaxing and calm all at the same time. Chaos in order.

Just the way I like it.


I suppose I’ll just run my fingers through my hair again and start over.

The math notebook is mainly a collection of physically abused pages violently scratched by a blunt pencil. I stopped thinking. I got sick of sitting with my head under my shoulders, reading one problem after another, so I stopped thinking about it and started doing it mechanically. And that’s when it all went fuckup. Of course I’ll be making numerous mistakes – I’m not thinking, am I? So, tell me, while you’re at it, what exactly are you doing?

“That’s how you prepare for an exam”, they told me. “Yes, you must be chained to the desk until it’s all over. That’s just how you do it.” But I can’t quite swallow the fact that I’m expected to do nothing except math for as long as the deadline allows me to, and, at that, be grateful for the opportunity. I don’t understand how suffocating myself in formulas will help. Alright, it’s an exam – arguably the most important exam of my life. I’ll give you that. Still doesn’t mean I can stop breathing for two weeks.

So, excuse me, but no, that’s not how I prepare for an exam, may it very well be the creator of my so-called fate.

To answer the earlier posed question, what I am doing is called nervous panicking. I am aware of the importance of the exam, but I can’t force myself to do anything that constantly. I’m at a mental crossroads, and no choice feels right. So I’m debating, and while I’m at it, I try to do another task, simply not to waste time while thinking. And that unconscious action already tells me which road I took…

So I sigh painfully over the wrong result, scratch it, turn the page, have a sip of coffee, run my fingers through my hair, and try again. Once more, with feeling.

In the Morning


They should put that line on coffees to go and morning sandwiches in the bakery and breakfast portions in McDonald’s and every digital announcement in the city. It’s 8.03 AM. WAKE UP! Speed limit 30. WAKE UP! Spread happiness. WAKE UP! Susan, will you marry me? WAKE UP! WAKE UP! WAKE UP! Then I might just think: “Oi, perhaps I should wake up.”

Or I could be too busy thinking about my warm, beautiful, soft, comforting bed that I was forced to abandon for the sake of a cold room, a cold house, a cold toilet and cold water out of the tap, and cold clothes and cold shoes and cold outside with cold wet rain and cold wet road and warm, wet, moisty bus where all the cold will turn into smell on people’s faces. I hate standing in the cold waiting for the bus to arrive and I hate standing in the bus waiting for the bus to arrive.

So why don’t I just stay in bed?

Ah, but my phone’s already ringing. The taste of freedom, so close but never reached, lingers on the tongue, resisting the toothpaste.

No more

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “In Loving Memory.”

…only lead to a shocking discovery that she had left a suicide note inside her diary, signed and dated March 10, 2013. In almost two years, no one has looked for her or reported her missing, not even…

…Lost and found – but who’d lost her?…


…the note said: “I don’t want anyone to know. The last thing I wanna do is bother you all. I’m sorry…”

…”…she even stated, at one point of the note, that she went somewhere where she wouldn’t disturb anyone.”…

Talking to herself, there’s no one else who needs to know…” – (Pearl Jam, Better Man)

…but her family was unable to comment…

“No one had seen it coming. She always kept to herself”

…case closed.

on the bus

heavy sound followed by smoke, slowly turning wheels and old machinery, a blue metal box, plasticized on the outside and crowded with people within, the air in it full of what we already know: tired people going to work, hands full of smartphones and heads full of uniformity. some trying to minimize the conversation with others, others trying to start one in a sharing situation. Looking through the smudged window; wiping it with your sleeve so you’d get a clear view when there’s actually nothing to see except empty land, broken road signs and a plain white line. sometimes you’re hungry; sometimes you’re sleepy. sometimes you read headlines over people’s shoulders. sometimes there’s an empty seat. most times your ankles get sore. but one is for sure: there’s no getting out until the driver opens the door.