I belong to the earth; And this earth alone.

What can I say?

I always ask the question of what politically correct identity I could stand aft with: looking toward it with the utmost confidence, lifting my glass of wine like the sacrificial blood of Seth and pronouncing my unfathomable love, longing, and connection with it.

What inclination do I have to identify myself with any politically designated surface of this earth?

I believe - and I would like to strictly bring attention to my wording here; I believe, does not mean 'I Know' - I believe that I had/have a pro-Yugoslavian predisposition to accurately assessing my identity and for that reason belong to that specific nationality. But more importantly the philosophy and epistemology of my life belongs to that time. Hence, I blindly search for the past in my future oblivious to my inevitable foredooming failure.

My nationality, so to speak - as much as I believe that term is kitsch - died and fell, as bombs fell not only around the walls and willows of my home, but also on the heart and mind of everything that was to be prosperous, promising and amiable in my future.

No more shall the sun rise upon fertility. And no more shall the rays of welcome enter those desolate rooms so eerie; so tired of silence. Those rooms that once stood like Godly palaces upon fields of zealous grass that would not seize there nimble growth not even in the harshest winter, now, rain to the ground like ashes of cremated bones.

I hearken back to these times; through memory, through story, and through literature. With wishful thinking nothing can be brought from the past. But to hope for the past is something pleasant at breast, like a maternal bosom.

Hence why I believe I do not belong to any particular area, which in popular vocabulary means I don’t stand for any nationality. If there was an instant where I could have belonged to any other part of this globe it would have been Bohemia. But my dreams were disembodied the day the Bohemian bodies were underneath the tracks and scope of that vivacious juggernaut that so shamelessly oppressed peoples in the name of Socialism! This happened long before my birth, so to even consider it is absurd. But what a mind, Oh! What a mind would be without the reason of the absurd? But a speck of dust in a nebula cloud.

As I write this, it is becoming clearer to me that in fact, I am in constant and abyssal battle against my own past, rather than the dilemma of identity and nationalistic connection. Maybe one day ill elaborate on that, when I myself get my head around it.

Now, I will not raise my glass and announce my concluded endeavour for nationalistic identity. Even though I do not believe in it - as stated above - it does not mean I do not wish to be superficial enough and call myself by something. This 'something' at the moment is Serbian.

But Serbian is a state of mind, not an outline on a globe-lamp.

Experimental Writing on Eroticism

Okay, so firstly I thought this was good. Then i left it and read it again and thought it wasnt that good. But then again, I want you guys - those of you that read my blog - to read it. I'm no Marquis de Sade, ofcourse, stupid of me to even use his name in support of my own vanity here. But none-the-less. I hope you guys read it.

Thank ya!
X

Lying in bed, I realised it was not only the stars that she was aspiring to that warm December night. Fearless, she lay in bed watching the black butterflies of death cover the light. As inevitable as it seems, the light of invulnerability. Raising her hand in the now ominous darkness, she caressed that usually chastised area which was only distinguishable by its unburdened sonorous whispers coming from her gaping mouth. At this moment the clamorous odour of that alienated pollution seeping through the gigantically ill-sized windows was but a distant past. As her breaths get deeper, thicker, and agonisingly beautiful, en route to my shamefully naked body she turns – like a Cadillac towards an old, used motel room. She strikes my hand in an aloof fashion; oblivious and out of whim. I breathe sporadically, my heart not listening to the signals sent through my nervous system - for obvious reasons: they are getting distorted but the experimental touches of a softened hand not yet corrupted by the callousness of neither age nor wisdom. I develop my mouth towards hers in a less then indiscrete fashion which, by the nature of animals, is the preferred way to nestle a woman. My touch is rough and in control; dominant on her skin. Yet it is calm, collected, and gentle with exhilaration – the way a man’s embrace should be. With a bit of force and the assistance of her succumbing nature I move her legs ajar as I exercise a rapturous touch across the inner flanks of her thigh. Pertaining to the nature of the wind, I allow my hands to move over her nether region as though out of caprice; not thought out. She lashes out the delicately lascivious tones of breath, which not only move my soul around the inner corridors of my heart, but release the butterflies around my vitals. I overflow her thoughts with desires by massaging my hands into her voluptuous curves. Dangerously, I slide my fingers into those chastised privates, that before, were not yet familiar with a touch of pleasure, however now, those that flourish: damp with the saturation of love.

The story of climax, and hard-rooted sexual desires will be left, for a later date where Reason will give me room to speak freely.