sunday. I remembered my own words from a few years ago when I was obsessed with the sunday kurt cobain died. endless analysis of heavier than heaven. trying to piece the bits together, find my own explanation for all that affected me back then. it seems like a world of someone else. I haven’t listened to unplugged in a year. maybe more. with summer, great changes occurred and what used to be important became irrelevant. these words are penned into my notebook because I cannot stand the brightness and emptiness of the editor. eventually I will find time to copy these words and send them out there. but currently I am more than content handwriting yet keeping up with the promise of thirty sixty six. I never thought I would actually manage to write every single day. I never thought a lot of things. but they are happening.

in the process of writing a resume and a couple of cover letters. too much research. I am actually reading the couple of hundred pages UN reports. and it seems like such a joke. because it is incredibly easy putting all those words on paper and then sending out an envelope of promise. I wonder whether the person who writes those reports, believes them. I really wonder. things are good. relatively. I sense a dilemma coming up but it comes I am certain the answer will come by itself. I just need to learn how to be patient.

“Every artist needs an obsession.” – Jonathan Kane

a great friend of mine moved back to hong kong. I spend too much time working, little time writing and almost none with the boy. sometimes even when we are together I still miss him. one thing is to miss someone when they’re not there. but it’s a whole different bullshit when they are sitting right next to you. obsessing over little details. it’s killing me.

falling whistles. endless research on the topic. feeling pain. I keep re-reading the email I sent to them, pouring my soul out. research, research, research. the clinton failure. the years between 1991 and 1995 seem to be the worst. all the things that preceded them, all the things that followed. reading the history, pushing back the bitter feeling. obsessed with africa. but now it is somehow personal. trying to understand but I will never be able to.

from the email: not only he realizes and knows, but the pain he bears inside him is beyond anything anyone should be forced to feel. I, myself, was born into a civil war in bosnia in 1991 and consider myself croatian. although the issues are different, there is a number of things, which these two events share in common. but we never talk about this. we never talk about the pains, which our countries have brought to our own people, to us, to our families. the same way we avoid the subject of racism, slavery and anything that could come between us being two difference races, falling in love and trying to make it work. it should be simple, right? but it is not because of events over which we have no control and are far out of our reach, yet they affect us daily. and in a horrible way.

I keep trying to imagine what his reaction would be to all of this and nothing comes to me.

we sat together in darkness; the rain wet our hair making mine increasingly curlier. you found this amusing. in general, your obsession with my hair entertains me. eventually m showed up as well and I tried to explain the russian language to you. the difference between capa and sara. as expected you started calling me, capa. after a few minutes of laughing, you said: but you will always be baby prada to me. I don’t know why but I only then I realized we were sitting in the exact same spot where we first kissed many months ago. then you surprised me again because you seem to remember everything. in fact, you seem to remember things I have no recollection of whatsoever. which kind of makes me an asshole.

we awaited the sunrise, the hunger inside our stomachs and minds made us restless and we argued again. I stayed in bed alone, hoping to fall asleep before you came back. but you never let me sleep. you woke me up with a nudge to my cheek, the mess that is my hair spread out all over the pillows. look at me. I kept my eyes closed but I could feel how close your face was to mine. I am sorry. I hate it when you apologize instead of me. but there is no space for my apologies anymore. they have become insignificant and I am aware of the struggle that goes on within you. I wonder why we always come back to each other.

because I truly don’t understand.