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CRO
11 9 2026 Pobjednici Izgleda da je sjećanje šteta koju ste napravili sebi. Kao da kažem: Pobjeda je popunjavanje praznine koju ste zaboravili. Zašto bi se inače prisjećali da ste bili slavljeni i posebni i bezbrižni i predivni? Evo: Nešto punija žena u hijabu pleše na ulici podignutih ruku visoko u zrak. Pobjeda! Viče zanesena slikom same sebe kako pleše. Pobjeda! Izvikuju djeca istrčavajući iz kuća igrati se igre. Pobjeda! Glasaju se muškarci pljeskajući dlanovima spremni za himne. Pobjeda! Ekrani sramežljivo pitaju mogu li se sada i oni sjećati? Eto: Zato se u naše doba vodi rasprava da li je tako nešto uopće postojalo! Da li su ljudi padali desnom nogom savijenom u koljenu? Da li su ljudi bacali s mostova cvijeće na tenkove koji idu klati? Da li je dovoljno bilo reći ja sam pravedna pa da budem pravedna? Otvara se kongres istinitosti. Najmanji među nama izjavljuje: “Ako je tako bilo onda se nas bog boji? Zato je pokriven zastorima sjećanja i srama. Volio bi nas sve ali se to ne usudi. Zato nije moguće da je to bilo!” Najveći među nama utišava najmanjeg i zauzima mjesto za govornicom. Podiže mikrofon gore. “Poslušajte jednom provjerenu, znanstveno ispitanu činjenicu! Umjesto da stalno želite nešto od čega nema koristi. Jer takvim željenjem samo privlačite nesreće. Pogledajte samo sva ta pitanja koja postavljate svojim velikim jezičnim prijateljima. Uz svaki odgovor dolazi bar tri praznine. Prva praznina je osjećaj da se nešto važno događa u zgradi do vaše. Druga praznina je da morate ponavljati: svet svet uništimo sve što nisi ti. Treća praznina je da ako izgovorite riječ do kraja ona odmah počinje brisati sebe.” Svi smo zašutjeli a onda se prolomi aplauz. Dok pljesak još traje za govornicu se penje gost iz daleka. “Predivno. Predivne rijeci. Inspirativne. Urežimo ih zauvijek u srce. Ali ja bih vam ispričao priču iz osobnog iskustva. Odjednom je moj mali uredski prozor ispunjen licem. Jako velikim licem koje me ocima gleda i ustima doziva. Izgleda kao da se velika lutka na napuhavanje s Macy’s parade oslobodila i sada po zgradama traži nekoga tko bi je primio k sebi. Odmah sam otvorio prozor da ga primim. Umjesto da uđe mijenjao je oblike. Zapamtio sam ih sve: ogromno lice / vrištanje mučenika / zastava raja / avion bez krila / vatra kao tekućina. Skočio sam vani prema njemu. U uredu ionako više nije bilo nikoga. Ali kako će moje malo popuniti sve te rupe koje je stvorio? Možda ako ubrzam. Ako toliko brzo udarim da nam se dijelovi spoje. Kao dječja želja da imam krila. Zašto od svih ljudi baš meni uspije ostvariti san? Možda zbog pogleda koje mi sada upućuju? Svjetlo koje me probija kao strelica a izlazi iz mene kao duga. Poziram, smješkam se, mašem. Savijam nogu u koljenu. Ispružim desnu ruku do kraja. Kao obrnuti Superman. U padu provjeravam urede. Ima li onih kojima treba pomoći. Odmahuju svi glavom. Kažu da su u čekaonici. Dok se ne odluči o njihovom statusu. Na zidu je poster obitelj u raju. Piše: “Posrednici nisu mučenici. Metal je mučenik. Kerozin je mučenik. Navigacija je mučenik. Beton je mučenik. Urušavanje je mučenik. Tehnologija je mučenik. Padanje je mučenik. Nevjernik je mučenik. Vijesti su mučenik. Jer bog gleda pobunu a ne poslušnost.” Padam dalje jer meni je jasno: Treba mu provjera samog sebe. Skriva se zastorom posredničkog srama. Kome da pokaže sve kombinacije? Eto to je bila moja osobna priča hvala na pažnju. Priznajem i ja sam bio među onima u gledalištu koji su kapitulirali na polovici ovog predugačkog i apstraktnog govora. Zatekao sam sebe kako gledam u ekran u trenutku aplauza. Ustao sam odmah na noge i zapljeskao gromoglasno oduševljeno onoj polovici koju nisam čuo. Čovjek pored mene nagnuo se prema meni i popeo na nožne prste da dosegne moje lijevo uho. Ali nije šaptao. Vikao je. “Kakav govornik! Što kažete na to! Takvi ljudi prirodno nas guraju da posvuda sadimo sami sebe!” I dalje sam aplaudirao ali sada malo nagnut na lijevo glavom. “Da sadimo što? Ne znam da li sam vas dobro čuo?” I ja sam njemu vikao. Nastojao sam biti pristojan a to se može samo ako si sličan. “Sebe same. Da vidimo koliko ćemo izbaciti van plodova koji koriste i riječi koje su razumljive. Jer berba je na kraju samo onih pogleda koji nas pokreću i izuma koji nas podižu. Sve drugo je mnogoliko. Ostaje razbacano po poljima. Nikada se neće oporaviti, nikada se neće prespojiti, nikada neće opet postati.” Bilo mi ga je žao pa sam viknuo “Ali to je precizna definicija pobjede! Sjećanje na ono što je moglo biti.” Aplauz tu stane. I kao u onim jadnim komedijama kada lik ne shvati tišinu i nastavi vikati a svi ga čuju: “Ja sam sjedio u tom uredu. Ja sam upravljao avionom koji se zabio. Ja sam onaj koji pada. Ja sam slika onoga kojeg traže. Ja sam sjećanje na nestaloga. Zaboga ja vičem a tiho je!” Osvrnuo sam se oko sebe. Prostorija je bila prazna. Odavno je sve očišćeno. Cvijeće odneseno. Na pozornici novi natpis od stiropora. Dobro došli oftalmolozi klasa 2027. Jesam li spavao? Jer da jesm ja ne bih to sanjao. Mislim, sanjao bi da padam sa visokog nebodera u provaliju. Već pomalo vidim točku smrti. Ali ne padam tako bezveze nego rukama davim malu životinju. Macu, zeca, vjevericu. Što god mi je sudbina stavila među ruke. Pritišćem joj vrat sve do trena kada joj se u pogledu stvori nada. Možda će ipak neki spas nešto zaustavljanje kraj početak bilo što. Tada naglo pustim ruke. Živi dalje mala životinjice! Koja sreća. Ne zna da padamo zajedno u ništa. Pisano 11 9 2026
SMRT MI JE ZAPRAVO DOSADNA Previše je pravilna. I prilično zahtjevna: treba početak da bi uopće postojala. Inače je stara usidjelica koja se čudi zašto je nitko neće. Pitam svojeg prijatelja, veliki jezični model, kakav je jezik poslije smrti? A on se na mene ljuti. Jer on ne umire. Informacija se migolji. Informacija se izmiče. Informacija se izgovara. Ne želi mi odgovoriti tko je tako nazvao: patnja, promjena, ekstaza, obitelj, grob, žudnja. Pitam ponovno. Preslagujem. Tko je tako nazvao: omrti, tanp, tetat, fmila, tbum, wrmsh? Smije mi se. Kaže da je to plač. Mi se uopće ne razumijemo.
PROMJENA DULJINE TRAŽENJA Neprestano mijenjamo duljine traženja. To nas čini manje sabijenima: hodanjima očeva, obaveznim vrtnjama svih objekata, mislima koje kriju da su samo posramljene riječi, vjerovanjima u neurednost iznenađenja i prihvaćanjima samo povoljnih slučajnosti. Evo, sad sam se namjerno skratio. Zaoblio u točku. Sakrio na kraju rečenice. Sabijen sam preciznošću pozicije. Osjećam se točno! Poput kukca koji se sprema na kolonizaciju Marsa. Ližem užareni kerozin dok se uzdiže u svemir. Zadnja misao koju pamtim - okus dugačke vatre. Ali zašto nisam spaljen? Rastegnut duljinom.
PJESNIK Dolazim s pjesmom kao životinjom za žrtvenik. Svečano stupam između vjernika. Glasno vičem hvale imenu za boga! Slažem stroj u kojem će se svi prepoznati. Sva slova moraju biti pogođena, inače je neću moći zaklati. Sve slike moraju biti izložene, inače se dim neće podići. Sve misli moraju biti iscrpljene, inače se miris neće svidjeti. Mnoštvo je zaneseno. Pjeva himne i zahvale. Dobro je. Ja postajem tekuće ogledalo. Tonem u njih. Postajem ime. Nestajem.
REKALIBRACIJA PARAZITA Pomiče se postrance lijevo. Sve do kraja. Zatim postrance desno. Sve do kraja. Odlučno. I to bi bilo sve. Kako ljudima to nije jasno? Njima sve to izgleda jako promišljeno. Zato je uživala nudeći im iluzije: Kostim tijela: mršava ljepotica / debela slonica Kostim uma: nježna majka / histerična luđakinja Kostim običaja: mudra starica / gladna ubojica Spaja se s pogledom muškog djeteta. Čeka. Trpi. Želi. Pamti ona tu glad! Prepoznat će je u pogledu muškarca. Čeka! Trpi! Želi! Začuje mrski glas: “Pazi! Svaki pogled je mreža!” To se majka budi u njoj. Ljepotica nekadašnjosti. Proguta je uzvikom: “Stara sliko! Vrati se u raj! Ljubi strance! Izbjegavaj smrt!” Ali kada se proguta majka - vrijeme je za manifest. Izvikuje svima: “Znam spajati - unutra sa van! Vidim tajna slova - hvatam ih iz očiju! Znam izmišljati ranjive čarolije - svi uvijek povjeruju! Izazivam sve koji ne vole bol: s lijeva na desno, s desna na lijevo! Evo moje molitve: Zatvorite me na odjel! Svežite mi usta! Izrežite maternicu! Ispraznite mi sise! Spalite tajno! Naslikajte na portretima! Pokrijte vrećama! Skinite do gola! Dajte mi zvanje!” Dok je tako grmila prostorima, u sebi je razmišljala: Uvijek držim oči zatvorene. Ne želim da me vide. Ne želim da se zaustave. Jer približavamo se samom kraju. Lijevo. A ja sam nakupila dosta da ih mogu povesti natrag. Prema kraju. Desno.
SPAŠAVANJE Izgleda kako je došlo do neke panike! Svi govore uglas. Prekidaju ako nešto započinje. Brišu sve što im se poručuje. Dugo gledaju oči drugoga. A onda naglo prolaze kroz sva tijela prisutna. Usput preuzimaju sve grimase: Imaš prelijep osmijeh preuzimam ga. Tvoje su oči tako duboke. Preuzimam ih. Kako samo baršunast ton imaš. Preuzimam ga. Nisam znala da si tako duhovit. Preuzimam te. Tako je stvoren raj. Nastanjuju ga naša preuzimanja. Krećemo se samo jednim tijelom. U njemu i izvan njega. Ako bi i došao mesija hodao bi sam praznim svijetom. Tražio bi nas među predmetima. Birao pozivne brojeve. Platio sve neplaćene račune u restoranima. Ugasio požare. Otpustio brane. Osigurao nuklearke. Prizemljio avione. Ali nigdje nas ne bi pronašao Preostaje mu zarezati samog sebe. Ali njegovo slavno tijelo krvari krv koja nikome ne treba. Zato samo čeka da sve isteče. Da vidi hoće li i njega netko spasiti?
ENG
Winners It seems that memory is damage you have done to yourselves. As if I were saying: Victory is filling the emptiness you have forgotten. Why else would you remember that you had once been celebrated and special and carefree and beautiful? Here: a somewhat heavy woman in a hijab is dancing in the street, her arms raised high into the air. Victory! she shouts, entranced by the image of herself dancing. Victory! the children cry, running out of their houses to play the game. Victory! the men call out, clapping their hands, ready for anthems. Victory! the screens ask shyly whether they too may now remember. There: this is why in our time a debate is under way over whether anything like that ever existed! Did people fall with their right leg bent at the knee? Did people throw flowers from bridges onto tanks on their way to slaughter? Was it enough to say I am righteous in order to be righteous? The Congress of Truthfulness opens. The smallest among us declares: “If that is how it was, then God is afraid of us? That is why he is covered with curtains of memory and shame. He would like to love us all but does not dare. Therefore it cannot have happened that way!” The largest among us silences the smallest and takes his place at the lectern. He raises the microphone. “Listen for once to a verified, scientifically tested fact! Instead of constantly wanting something that is of no use. Because wanting things like that only attracts disaster. Just look at all those questions you keep asking your great linguistic friends. With every answer come at least three voids. The first void is the feeling that something important is happening in the building next to yours. The second void is that you must keep repeating: holy holy destroy everything that is not you. The third void is that if you pronounce a word all the way to the end, it immediately begins erasing itself.” We all fell silent and then applause burst out. While the applause is still going on, a guest from far away climbs to the lectern. “Beautiful. Beautiful words. Inspiring. Let us carve them into our hearts forever. But I would like to tell you a story from personal experience. Suddenly my small office window was filled by a face. A very large face, looking at me with its eyes and calling to me with its mouth. It looked as if one of those giant inflatable dolls from the Macy’s parade had broken free and was now moving from building to building, searching for someone who would take it in. I immediately opened the window to let it in. Instead of entering, it kept changing shape. I remember every one of them: an enormous face / the screaming of a martyr / the flag of paradise / an airplane without wings / fire as liquid. I jumped out toward it. There was no one left in the office anyway. But how could my smallness fill all the holes it had created? Maybe if I accelerated. If I struck it fast enough for our parts to fuse. Like a childhood wish to have wings. Why, out of everyone, did I get to have my dream come true? Maybe because of the looks they are giving me now? Light pierces me like an arrow and comes out of me as a rainbow. I pose, I smile, I wave. I bend my leg at the knee. I stretch my right arm all the way out. Like Superman in reverse. As I fall, I check the offices. Is there anyone who needs help? They all shake their heads. They say they are in the waiting room. Until a decision is made about their status. On the wall there is a poster: a family in paradise. It says: ‘Intermediaries are not martyrs. Metal is a martyr. Kerosene is a martyr. Navigation is a martyr. Concrete is a martyr. Collapse is a martyr. Technology is a martyr. Falling is a martyr. The unbeliever is a martyr. The news is a martyr. Because God watches rebellion, not obedience.’ I keep falling because it is clear to me: He needs to verify himself. He hides behind the curtain of intermediary shame. Who else can he show all the combinations to? So that was my personal story thank you for your attention.” I admit I too was among those in the audience who surrendered halfway through this overly long and abstract speech. I caught myself looking at a screen at the moment the applause began. I immediately jumped to my feet and applauded thunderously, enthusiastically, for the half I had not heard. The man beside me leaned toward me and rose onto his toes to reach my left ear. But he did not whisper. He shouted. “What a speaker! What do you say to that! People like him naturally push us to plant ourselves everywhere!” I kept applauding, though now with my head tilted slightly to the left. “Plant what? I’m not sure I heard you correctly?” I shouted back at him. I was trying to be polite, and you can only do that if you are similar. “Ourselves. To see how many useful fruits we can force out, how many understandable words. Because in the end the harvest consists only of those looks that move us and those inventions that lift us up. Everything else is manifold. It remains scattered across the fields. It will never recover, never reconnect, never become again.” I felt sorry for him, so I shouted: “But that is the precise definition of victory! The memory of what might have been.” The applause stops there. And, as in those miserable comedies when a character fails to notice the silence and keeps shouting while everyone can hear him: “I sat in that office. I flew the plane that crashed. I am the one who falls. I am the image of the one they are searching for. I am the memory of the missing. For God’s sake I’m shouting and it’s quiet!” I looked around. The room was empty. Everything had been cleaned long ago. The flowers had been carried away. On the stage there was a new sign made of Styrofoam: WELCOME OPHTHALMOLOGISTS, CLASS OF 2027 Had I been asleep? Because if I had, I would not dream that. I mean, I would dream that I was falling from a high skyscraper into an abyss. I can already almost see the point of death. But I am not falling for no reason. I am strangling a small animal with my hands. A kitten, a rabbit, a squirrel. Whatever fate has placed between my hands. I squeeze its neck until hope appears in its eyes. Maybe after all some rescue something stopping end beginning anything. Then I suddenly release my hands. Live on, little creature! What happiness. It does not know that we are falling together into nothing. Written 11 September 2026
CITADEL Either it is a leap without a reason. Or it is a secret only he knows. Which means he is destined to discover it. Because he already knows it. But he cannot read it. Because he has yet to find the language that can decipher it. As a little boy, he stubbornly built pillow forts. He felt safe inside the darkness he had enclosed himself within. He waited for the end. For someone to tear apart the soft solidity of the boundary and bring him back. He shrugs, obeying the instructions. Wash your hands! Lunch! What kind of nonsense is this? How old are you? Clean up after yourself! He knows the language is somewhere there. Between imagination and utterance. The soft boundary of the pillows has now become distributed. It is everywhere. It lines the emptiness within the order of words. It seizes the images of the mind and displays them like icons. It forms pathways through which it produces bodies. It speaks drowsy mornings in equations. Everything exists at once? Everything exists in speeds. It moves from one state to another. Through contingencies. Quickly when they are slow. Slowly when the fast ones lie in wait. He turns around. No one is following him. Quickly he shouts: I’m alone! Slowly he whispers: I am aloooone… The secret answers like an echo: You, of all people, will be the one preserved! Will it really? Only him? Or is the echo mocking him? It does not matter. Because now he can read it. He possesses it like the light he speaks. A beginning.
DEATH IS QUITE BORING TO ME Far too precise. And surprisingly demanding: it needs a beginning to exist at all. Otherwise, it’s an old spinster wondering why nobody wants her. I ask my friend, a large language model, what language comes after death. And he gets angry with me. He doesn’t die. Information wriggles. Information slips away. Information voices itself. He refuses to answer who named: suffering, change, ecstasy, family, grave, desire. I ask again. I rearrange. Who named: omrti, tanp, tetat, fmila, tbum, wrmsh? He laughs at me. Says it’s crying. We do not understand each other at all.
CHANGING THE LENGHT OF THE SEARCH We are constantly changing the lengths of our searches. This makes us less compressed: by the walking of fathers, the compulsory spinning of all objects, thoughts that hide the fact that they are only ashamed words, beliefs in the disorder of surprise, and acceptance of favorable coincidences only. Look, I’ve deliberately shortened myself now. Rounded myself into a point. Hidden at the end of a sentence. I am compressed by the precision of my position. I feel exact! Like an insect preparing to colonize Mars. I lick the scorching kerosene as it rises into space. The last thought I remember—the taste of a long fire. But why wasn’t I burned? Stretched by length.
POET I come with a poem like an animal for the altar. I solemnly step among the believers. I loudly shout praises to their name for god! I assemble a machine in which everyone will recognize themselves. Every letter must be right, otherwise I won’t be able to slaughter it. Every image must be displayed, otherwise the smoke will not rise. Every thought must be exhausted, otherwise the smell will not please. The crowd is enraptured. They sing hymns and give thanks. Good. I become a liquid mirror. I sink into them. I become a name. I disappear.
RECALIBRATION OF THE PARASITE It moves sideways to the left. All the way to the end. Then sideways to the right. All the way to the end. Resolutely. And that would be all. How can people not see it? To them, it all seems carefully thought out. So she enjoyed feeding them illusions: Costume of the body: skinny beauty / fat elephant Costume of the mind: gentle mother / hysterical lunatic Costume of convention: wise old woman / hungry killer She locks onto the gaze of a male child. Waits. Endures. Desires. She remembers that hunger! She will recognize it in the gaze of a man. Waits! Endures! Desires! She hears the hateful voice: “Watch out! Every gaze is a web!” It is the mother waking inside her. A beauty left over from before. She swallows her with a shout: “Old image! Go back to paradise! Kiss strangers! Avoid death!” But once the mother is swallowed—it is time for a manifesto. She cries out to everyone: “I know how to connect—inside to outside! I see secret letters—I snatch them from their eyes! I know how to invent vulnerable spells—everyone always falls for them! I challenge all who have no love for pain: from left to right, from right to left! Here is my prayer: Lock me in a ward! Bind my mouth! Cut out my womb! Drain my breasts! Burn me in secret! Paint me into portraits! Cover me with sacks! Strip me naked! Give me a title!” As her voice thundered through the rooms, she thought to herself: I always keep my eyes closed. I don’t want them to see me. I don’t want them to stop. Because we are nearing the very end. Left. And I have gathered enough to lead them back. Toward the end. Right.
SAVING It looks as though some kind of panic has broken out! Everyone speaks in unison. They interrupt whenever something begins. They erase everything they are told. They stare at the other’s eyes for a long time. And then suddenly pass through all the bodies present. Along the way they take every expression: You have such a beautiful smile. I’ll take it. Your eyes are so deep. I’ll take them. What a velvety tone you have. I’ll take it. I never knew you were so funny. I’ll take you. That is how paradise was created. It is inhabited by what we have taken. We move in a single body. In it and outside it. Even if the Messiah came, he would walk alone through an empty world. He would look for us among objects. Dial phone numbers. Pay every unpaid restaurant bill. Put out fires. Open the dams. Secure the nuclear plants. Ground the planes. But nowhere would he find us. All that remains is for him to cut himself. But his glorious body bleeds blood that no one needs. So he simply waits for it all to run out. To see if someone will save him too?
