Clinical case of disintegration and neurasthenia

I wonder week after week, searching for the thematic framework of what I want to write here, whether there is a possibility of stepping out into something different in some sense, into those stories that will not be so gloomyly burdensome and deafening with real reflections. In other words, can one be essentially current, and not constantly repeat the same or similar constructions in order to understand processes that in socio-political terms are changing as if on a conveyor belt. And essentially, it is always the same patterns, invariably deadly circumstances create stylistic burdens that in most cases prevent that real opportunity to remain untouched by the general contamination and deafness of brutal everyday life. Being a commentator on our current reality therefore constantly seems to me like a repetitive Sisyphean task, because no matter how one tries to achieve some kind of authorial transformation, reality denies us and reduces the room for maneuver in writing. Of course, it is possible that there is a strategy that will be less devastating, but I do not see it at the moment or it simply escapes me. I say all this because I often wonder what sense we find in writing about something that is so well known that even the birds on the branches chirp about it in the spring.

In other words, what is the purpose of all this, what kind of urge prompts us to force ourselves to remain anchored in reckoning with the ghosts that have been scaring us from the dark for over thirty years, returning cyclically with the same old problems. This is, in fact, the burden with which I wrestle again and again with each of my texts. And regardless of these convulsions, the pain of meaning and expression, I once again grab hold of that piece of my space in order to once again, for the umpteenth time, fathom, come up with, resolve what has marked both my life and the life of all of us here. It would perhaps be advisable in this sense to establish some distance, to try to stay out of the reach of the fungus and calamities of informational ethno-partitocratic hysteria, and from that vantage point observe the phenomenological and anthropological events that are an inseparable part of our existence here. But even then, I think, the result would not be too different, because living for so long in a country that is a clinical, sanatorium-like case of all kinds of disintegration and neurasthenia, no matter how much one tries to escape from it, leaves its own direct consequences. Sometimes I think that everything that is happening around us is a kind of experiment to determine how much a human being can really withstand the pressure of genuine political foolishness.

Hence, I return to the very meaning of writing in the given circumstances, writing down this and this kind of reality comes as a psychotherapeutic need, without which everything would perhaps be much harder to bear. If a person had no desire to express themselves, if they were not annoyed by everything that is happening, it would mean that they had signed the final surrender, given up on the desire to be different, to change something at any cost. The worst thing is deadening, that is what has been insisted on all this time, that is the agenda of those in power and their supporters, to suppress any rebellion within us, to accept the given situation as the only normality, to submit and zombify ourselves to the point that we do not care. And only when we become indifferent, only then are we completely left to the wind, at the mercy of those who have stolen our past, present and future.

Recently my mother said to me: I was reading you, you wrote about Dodik again, and in the face of that statement of hers, I wondered why I had wasted hundreds, even thousands of pages of paper dealing with something so shameless, that mockery from nightmares. And I came to the answer - because I cannot agree to the empire of stupidity and xenophobic exclusivism, wrapped in the colorful paper of nationalism, behind which lies only the predatory greed of the powerful caste who, out of fear of the citizens of this country, profit and live like gods, while the rest of us are content with the crumbs that fall from their table. That is the essential reason why I write, because I believe that there is a world beyond this deadness of ours, that there are more important things than ethno-national primacy and the satrapal intentions that go with it. Therefore, and at the end of my address to the esteemed štioks, as barb Miljenko Smoje would say, resist, do not allow the short time of our lives to pass in fear, to fight unworthy of our human form. As long as the tiniest flame of any resistance smolders, it means that it is not over, that there is a point and a reason to raise your voice.

(oslobodjene.ba)