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.