so i cry.
this big burden on my mind, would anyone ever guess where it comes from?
may it be a stranger, a friend long forgotten, somebody i hurt, a child i never had, my own reflection in a shop window of the bookstore i often pass by… it’s been a while since my own reflections spoke the truth to me.
indeed, i hide well my soul with collections of pain and things i see, my soul that has absorbed words, half-truths… letting go… of all. protecting my knowledge. to suffer some more. because i do not blame others for the way i feel. every half truth will slam my face, every lie will spit straight in. why will i give all the comfort again? why will i say i don’t need anything more then i got? why will i hide my fear? why will i run away? why have i played a hero? am i a real one? why do i feel dead? why am i not alive? will anyone talk to me? will somebody i hurt badly come back to save me? saving would be to hear they know the truth. help would be to give me a week. a week of attention.
i was attentive all my life. it is so easy when it comes to me, to live other peoples’ lives, or even live for them. they can be feeling with my skin, hanging on my words, living on my breath… i stole this line, understanding it fully. i dare say i’m giving. i must admit i’ve mistaken, sinned, hurt some. not the ones who find themselves hurt by me, and not emotionally. i’ve sinned my own way. i lied. clearing off others, i lied. Covered my self in dirt, eating dust, kicking my self. to give, always to give, to free somebody else.
i do find it peculiar to put this post out publicly. I never tell my friends i hope for some attention, especially not what kind of it. instead i wait and hope to be asked before i speak. it just never happens.
so if i know something in life, it is how to breathe for others, and how to forever stay alone. i take no proud in my know-how. i don’t know if i have regrets about it. i know i cry. i know i am denied to be different. i know i’m called bad names. i know i irritate people around me. i know i ask too many questions. i know i hear all answers, the lies half-truths and almost truths, when i ask questions. i know i am an outcast, for seeing where the side of the truth lays. i know i live in serbia. i know i refuse to be serbian/priviledged over here. i know i am treated as a lower human being in any other country i go. i know i spend my time alone, and am called a bitch at home, and judged as a probable prostitute on borders entering foreign countries. I know people look down on me abroad, from the second they learn about my origins.
luckily, boundaries between life, books, films, music, any art, for me do not exist. so i live on in songs, creating. Or i live in a painting, or i learn from one as much as from life. Before my next reflection in a shop window tells me the next truth, i will keep going as ever, alone. Because to my kind of people, a week of time can be only given by ourselves, reflections included. and nobody else. i need a week. for my self. When i take it, i will have so much to share. Until then, i have to collect all means, even though i keep giving. My own choice.
Some have lost me for good. I know i will always have myself.
I made this post to tell the similar people, those among my small number of delicately self selected readers, that we have our freedom. And freedom cannot be replaced.
I am not ashamed of having written a private story here. I believe everything is ideological. The deep fears that have embraced me I learned to live with. My art is to bring them out as the social issue. Because they are. My alienation from my place of living, which i do love and care for, is my best case study. “Memoria” (my last film) came out of it. “The state” (that i’ve just shot) comes out of it. Crying as i do, i know where i stand. Have courage to stand, alone – i tell myself. Always walk alone – i tell myself. Never ask for a week of time to anyone – i tell myself. May it be all i need to live on, to live, come back of the feeling of being dead.
Photos, as always, even when unsigned, by: Jelena Markovic