~ Beyond silence ~

From his beginning, man constantly searches for something, most of himself and the essence of his nature. He tirelessly strives to rise to the heights, which makes his life conceivable. Sometimes he feels the need to be aloof, to hang out with solitude, and, so withdrawn, finds a quiet harbor where there are not many ships and noise. Although much in his past had some value, he nevertheless makes the decision to leave it behind. He wants to get rid of all the dark forces and loads that have burdened him for years, in order to establish his inner balance again. At those moments, he’s looking for silence, aware that only it can help him cope with his crisis and find himself again. His thoughts stop in the mirror of deep, calm water, where dense forests and their giant stables, which hold the sky on their backs, are seen. While the sun’s rays and shadows are playing in their big treetops, he is thinking what is beyond them, are people searching for silence there, or fleeing from it? Does everything stop and disappear with it: both excitement, passion, courage, and perseverance, and pain, and yearning, and thunders, and hard days? And just then, when he thinks for a moment that he has found his calm harbor, he becomes restless and curious again. He is wondering what is beyond the silence, what is hidden beyond this invisible wall, in which there is no response to the call. Is there light or is it all endless darkness? Does everything become nothing, do all sins disappear? He is wondering why all the people are rushing on the road to silence and why are they always disappointed when they find it? He comes to the conclusion that our world exists only until its beginning. Everything beyond this, our world, in which life is still lush, becomes an unknown and a fear that we will find out once what is hidden in it. We always associate this unknown with what we have experienced, and we reject the possibility that there may be some other feelings, concepts and worlds that we are not yet ready for. There may be some new words, long and unobtrusive, which we still need to learn. And we, relying only on ourselves, are afraid of the coldness, and we are constantly living in fear that these new words will wipe out all our warmth and feelings. Even some of our known words, torn between oblivion and darkness, never become sound. They constantly become questions that wander to the invisible wall. Every word that touches that wall becomes ice, hopelessness and emptiness, which returns to us as a boomerang. Our beautiful blue planet, trapped in the cage of its own fate, is silent. The echo of its painful scream and disappearance is constantly coming back to it. We, its inhabitants, whenever we try to fly, constantly hit this cage, and we return with broken wings. Silence does not allow our words to move on. It stops them, like a sign on the road, as if it wants to say that they can not go that way, and the man, most of all, liked to go forbidden roads from his beginning. The obstacles always caused even greater curiosity and persistence in him. He is so persistent on his way that he decided to solve one of the greatest enigmas, which is related to all spheres of his life, and which does not give him any peace. Why is there silence? How did it come about? Is it the beginning and the end of everything? Everything around us exists for a reason, and perhaps there is silence for stopping a man and saving him from evil or telling him that everything beyond it is wandering, icy loneliness and an endless emptiness, in which he should not rush. It may be there to help all those people who are silent, or afraid that it will stop if they pronounce its name. Sometimes the fear of the unknown is stronger than every word, and the truth about life is so complex and bitter that it can be expressed only by silence, not by words. A man often finds himself in suffering. In him, a new personality begins to grow, and with it the consciousness that life could be different from the one he knows. Some new spaces, for which only patience was needed, begin to open before him. He feels that he has crossed some invisible threshold and opened the door of his new home in which he will start from the beginning. Perhaps, something he has long since begun, and stopped by pointless questions, he will complete in his new home.
Beyond silence, author Suzana Stojanović, February 12, 2007

~ Good fairies leave only once ~

By talking, humans have for centuries created an illusion of life and duration. Since ancient times, words have helped a man to overcome loneliness and sadness, to forget about transience and to postpone his end. Seneca said that life was short, art long-lasting, an opportunity quick, an attempt dangerous and that a decision was difficult. The man, caught up in all this confusion, often wants to flee to another world, woven of stories, fairy tales and myths about old beautiful times, convinced that the real truth, which comes to man, is only that which is not written. Often powerless to confront the cruel reality, he begins to believe in miracles and to flee to a certain world in which he can see only what he wants to see. In this world, he is surrounded by untouched nature and miraculous, supernatural beings, for which some still believe that they sometimes pass through one of our paths, but rare are those who can see them. According to the tradition, the good fairies, bathed in light, come from the past to heal wounds and to melt the ice in the hearts of those who believe in them. Some people are constantly looking for them, searching for them in many strange and inaccessible places, not knowing that the Golden Age has long ceased and that good fairies leave only once. After their leaving, the high mountains and dense forests remained empty and silent. The stones around the water also keep silent, as if they do not want to give a clue when and in what direction they went. They left no trace behind them, except for the story that they were once wrapped in golden strands of beautiful, long hair, dancing and flying in dresses of clouds. These golden threads of a miraculous world have remained intertwined in many lyrical and epic verses, from which emerged the poetry of unattainable and special goddesses of light that once protected man from evil and about the man who failed them. Unable to resist the evil that overwhelms him, he began to trample everything in front of him. Under his feet were fairies and their shelters. Even the arrows and the thorny paths did not help them to resist his dark intentions. Terrified, they helplessly watched the saddest of all ruins in the world, the ruin of a man. The song ceased, guns started shooting and people went to war. Everything turned into ashes and sorrow. The Gods of light disappeared in the clouds of smoke. According to the legends the unhappy fairies started wandering through the mountains and singing songs with the winds. They were trying to protect their mountain world from a man they trusted no more. If people started to take healing herbs, they would throw them from the cliffs into the abyss, because they didn’t want to share their power over healing herbs with others. They were hiding them in their secret gardens and caves. The life of each of them was related to a particular tree, plant, mountain, spring, river or a lake. There wasn’t a place they couldn’t live in or build their fairy castles on: they lived in lower clouds and protected Perun, the God, inside thick treetops and in the sea, they fed on roe milk and rode deer. There were as many good fairies as there were springs in the mountains. While they were residing there, the sources were inexhaustible and healing. They often chose caves for their home, and there only the chosen ones could see that wonderful another world and the beauty of their long, scattered hair. That world turned into a maze of rocks with no way out before many visitors. They wanted to capture the fairies and fell into their own trap, because they did not know that it was necessary to live in it for the knowledge of nature, its secrets and laws. Instead of trying to get closer to it, their behavior moved away from it more and more. Unrestrained and noisy, blinded by their own stupidity, they could not see what is rarely seen: an untouched world, bathed in sun and streams, inspired by life and purity, surrounded by spring and joy, from whose mountains the smells of pine trees and beautiful field flowers are lowered. They cut down the forests, trampled flowers, and the paradise silence turned into noise. Fairies loved music, but, most of all, they hated noise. They went to some quieter places because of the noise that civilization had brought into their castles. People drove them away with their constant comings and the destruction of their caves. The ones that lived in the springs, lakes and streams turned into swans and miraculous birds in order to hide from people. And then, from somewhere, tireless hunters, who wandered for days in the valleys and forests in order to catch one of these birds, appeared. There remained only a story that some people are still talking with good fairies. Some look for them in rare flowers, in the first dew, in marvelous circles of mushrooms that, according to the legend, grew in places where fairies once had danced. Even today there is a belief that they could come back some day; maybe then when people finally take their own garbage with them. And what about the ruined caves, plants, springs, lakes and rivers? Will they come back, too?
Good fairies leave only once, author Suzana Stojanović, November 20, 2007

~ A call at midnight ~

Jack London said: “For most people, life is like a bad time. They stand and wait to pass.” There are other ones that time is always missing. They use a variety of tricks to reach it, they even steal it. They steal it from night. In the kingdom of darkness and silence, they quietly go to their secret gardens and steal time for reflection and reverie. Even the gods favor them, so they donate time to love them in the small hours. The night, mysterious and unpredictable, is always a challenge for restless spirits. Fear reigns in the depths of the shadows. We don’t see it, but we can feel its presence. The courage succumbs slowly in front of its abyss, inborn somewhere deep inside ourselves, inherited from some terrified far ancestor. Fear maddening and clouds the mind and it is the main source of human crime. In the dark labyrinth he runs away from small and large, of old age and poor, from evil words and evil diseases, of deserted woods and empty rooms, the voice of the unknown and unfamiliar steps, he flees from the threat and destruction, deceit and traps, despair and madness. In the deep darkness and silence, strolling along the kingdom of his spirit, a man, not knowing enough of himself and unable to defeat fear, often hears the inaudible, see the invisible. Nothing in the night is not as great importance as the moment when the clockwise covered, when in eerie silence clocks start ticking midnight. At that moment, awakened from a half-sleep, we fight with a bunch of thoughts that persistently coming like a river after the rain. Another day is behind us, life inevitably passes, a new day begins and who knows what it brings. Those, to whom the day was bad, just waiting for it to finish and to leave it behind them, and some complain that it ended, maybe that day was one of the best days of their lives. In that separation of time it looks like two invisible worlds are being separated: one oriented towards the past, the other to the future. Those, who are not afraid to look back in time, are ready for the arrival of a new day. Those, who run away from the past, rush into the future for fear that they do not miss anything. And again, all together, brave and timid, patient and impatient, slow and fast, we can not resist time. Each of its midnight tirelessly informs us that we are powerless. Some in the impotence increases with life; some are born at midnight and the end of life they are not sure when their birthday is, some are afraid of ghosts and vampires, so wide-eyed and staring into the darkness and waiting for midnight to pass, and for some midnight is inspiring and sensual. There is also a very interesting kind of people who wake up at midnight. Somehow they considered all the uncertainty and silence and try to undermine the noise: they eat, banging, rummaging through things, and, most of all, they like to call. As if they were just at that moment remembered something very important, they consistently turn to numbers and call, selfishly impair one’s dreams in the night. More selfish, they persistently are apologizing due to a broken dream. There are also one more interesting types of people, as they are called Guardians of the Night, whose spend their entire life in the vigil and anticipation. They always respond to calls, and they are the happiest in the world when somebody calls them at midnight. They are convinced that someone is thinking of them, that they are not forgotten, but they do not realize that they are just victims of those who wake up at midnight. It is good as long as they do not realize it, because the call at midnight could save someone’s life, or at least to delay its end. Vietnamese proverb says that the only one who can not sleep knows how long night is. And what about those who are dreaming awake?
A call at midnight, author Suzana Stojanović, August 5, 2015

~ Life in the clouds ~

Life is one great and constant struggle, but also a challenge for which we need a lot of strength and patience. It is always based on some conflicts, defeats, and victories. Long and short sailing, calm and turbulent waves, sunny days and storms, fear and optimism, joy and anticipation, despair and hopelessness are constantly changing on this endless open sea. Trying to escape from the darkness, we stretch out our hands to the clouds. At those moments, it seems to us that nothing is favorable to us: neither the wind, nor the sun, nor the moon, nor the sky. We are continuously followed by the feeling that there is not enough solid support that can withstand the weight of the load we carry. Our towers are collapse and everything that our thought touches, hurts. Lonely, we stand on some nameless space without glow, beauty and features, without witnesses and judges, and we fight battles without beginning and end, for which we often realize too late that they were futile. Our soul is constantly wandering around in this space, looking for its place. And just when we think we have found it, life surprises us. It turned its back and left us alone to rebuild something of nothing. Deceptive and unpredictable, it never gives what it promises; it’s always more or less than that. It gives us a false hope that often leads us to the wrong path. Only when we get lost we realize that we did not need to take some gifts. Everything on its shelves is attractive and rewarding, but the real taste of this motley is felt only when we taste it. Enchanted by its vast spaces, we are constantly rush from one side to the other, and not misgiving that each of our movements and moves leave traces. Often naive and careless, we write stories without an eraser. Without dramatic text, on an open stage with a curtain of clouds, we play badly assigned roles. Without the ability to choose whether we will act in a tragedy or comedy, whether we will laugh or cry, we transform ourselves from a man into a ghost, from a witch in a good fairy, from a prince to a beggar, from a wise man into a fool. Tired of constant transformation and disguise, some actors accept life as much as he is; they do not choose the role or the director. Every role for them is welcome. Unlike them, there are those who believe that they can climb to the clouds and that some new and better reality awaits them there. Enchanted, they do not see the world around them. Like windmills, they give themselves to unknown winds. They can not resist blue dreams and comfortable white pillows, which persistently call them and raise their visions up to the sky. The soft celestial carpets, far from the cruelty and rudeness of everyday life, bring some new, miraculous life. Under the open sky everything is clear and visible. There are no hidden thoughts, dungeons and nightmares. Everywhere there are only white clouds, behind which, somewhere in the distance, there are small, colorful dots of the sad world, which is lost in the beauty of infinity. All journeys in this infinity are free and unlimited, and nobody stops anyone. Passengers are indented in their thoughts, in which everything is beautiful, magnificently and long-lasting. In this miraculous world, everyone can realize his dreams without any particular strain. It's just enough to close his eyes and let himself enjoy it. Life at these heights looks lightweight like a breeze. Without foundations, built of imagination and dreams, it can not even collapse. Like clouds, it just passes and disappears somewhere in an infinite of illusions. Walking along that thin wire between heaven and earth, at one point, some optimists stop. As they observe the ground, they realize that the heights are not as tempting as they appear to them and that the clouds are not as close as they look. Lost somewhere between the ground and the blue sky, they stand and do not know whether they will go up or down, until the crucial moments, those which make them choose between reality and fiction, truth and lies, startle them. Some souls stay trapped forever within that invisible boundary and sail through life as twigs float down the river; they don’t move, they are carried by nothingness, emptiness and disappearance; they don’t know where they are, what they want and even less what they are able to do. They are convinced that everything is happening for a reason and that they have absolutely no role in the events they attend. Pessimism and indifference are the favorite places to which they are constantly returning. Everything about their lives is calm and lethargic. To this peace and simplicity, the restless and curious spirits, which maintain the balance in nature, are opposed. They are constantly flying up and down; while they are on the ground they watch the clouds and while they are in clouds they search for runways to land. They always indefatigably go in circles, and they’re never bored. In their interesting lifetime, they meet various people: the ones in clouds, the ones on the ground and the trapped ones. Like a wizard, they move from one state to another, so it often happens that we can not recognize them until they begin to talk about their travels and adventures. Some of these stories seem so incredible, that, often, as we listen to them, we ask ourselves if it is possible that so much is happening between heaven and earth, just above our thoughts and views. Unlike these curious ones, there are people who are afraid to fly. They spend their entire life firmly bound to the ground. Out of great fear they never watch the clouds; they don’t even dream of them. They usually understand only the things they themselves have experienced; they can’t imagine something completely new and different. Everything that is strange and unknown always represents something negative and bad for them. When they come face to face with this unknown, they, frightened, flee. Nevertheless, in this crowd, sometimes courageous people, who firmly believe in something, appear. They express their strongest desires in just one word and everything about their being always makes some sense. With glow in the eyes, they are talking about the heights and their beauties. Everything in their lives is easy and achievable. The only obstacle that stands in the way to their destination is the decision. We watch them packing suitcases and setting off in a one-way direction, towards the clouds. They are in search of themselves and their dreams somewhere high in the endlessness of the blue sky, being constantly turned towards the stars. In the bright sky, they chose one light point and spent their whole life traveling to it, hoping that it will bear their name one day. And all of us, more or less, somewhere deep inside us, want the life in clouds without being aware that our entire happiness lies hidden in the events happening while we climb up towards them. On that thorny road, each of us has experienced a terrible destiny and bitter inner struggles until we’ve realized the beauty of simplicity. The strangest thing of all is that only in the end do we get to know simple things.
Life in the clouds, author Suzana Stojanović, May 27, 2007

~ In pursuit of happiness ~

An old Arabic proverb says that there are two kinds of people: those who can be happy, but they aren’t and those who look for happiness, but never find it. Often thinking about this statement, the man spent his entire life in doubt about whether happiness should be sought or it smiled when we least expect it? He thinks he should wait for it to appear, and he does not know that he may not be able to recognize it, because it sometimes seems quite different from what he imagined. It, like a misfortune, passes by him throughout his life, goes with him in the same direction, intertwines with many important and inessential events, and he, in the whole of that chaos, is constantly in pursuit for it, sometimes not knowing what he is searching for. He observes other people, looks back on seeing them and their happiness while turning his back to his own. With that tremendous desire to have what others do and to want what others do, he forgets about himself and doesn’t know how to live on what he has already got, even though he’s got plenty: a wonderful kingdom on this beautiful Earth of ours in which he can create, love, smile, sing and jump; the kingdom in which he can steal a gust of wind, rays of the sun and sea waves, without being told a word; the kingdom in which gods gave him the power to create the works worthy of describing. Yet, a man spends his days in pursuit of something he thinks he does not, and deserves to have. He constantly plays lottery, while life, being given to him only once, irreversibly passes by him and disappears into the fog of wishes. He constantly expects that he will be the one who will receive the lottery and that he will then finally be happy because he will be able to fulfill all his wishes. Is that so? Can wealth make him happy or is it just a futile pursuit? An unhappy man can always be easily recognized; he is constantly telling how happy and rich he is, and how he has everything he wanted and what he dreamed about. Although no one asks him to talk about it, he is persistent. It’s probably the only way to convince himself of the truth of his words. In moments of loneliness, when there is no one near whom he can talk about his happiness, he realizes that he has everything but it. Although he had run for it all his life, he did not manage to grab it. Maybe it ran away from him because he had many, and maybe people who want to have everything can not be happy. The painful tragedy of man’s fate arose from the constant confrontation of the everyday banality, on the one hand, and his longing for the beauty of life, on the other. He never asks himself what is the beauty of life? Is this the bright spot that constantly flickers in his heart and leads him to a smile, fragrant flower and embrace, or is the wealth that leads him into solitude? Perhaps the purpose of life is to find the sky under which he will be happy, whether it is sprinkled with stars or not. Still, a man is convinced that he can always do better and more. Every day he begins with a new pursuit, not noticing that he does not have as many days as he thought. They quickly disappear one after the other, as well as his wishes and expectations. He let them go, just as in one of those days he let his happiness to go forever, and he does not know that once you let it go, it never comes back. After that, all the pursuits for it become futile. Maybe he just did not want it at that time, because it was small and ordinary, maybe he thought he was happy and did not need it, and maybe it did not show up at the right time. Someone once said that it was never early or late for happiness. Is that so? Are we always mature enough to stop it and not let it go? Are there right moments of happiness, or can we not recognize and accept it? Some people are convinced that it is buried somewhere deep and that they should be persistent to find it. They are digging curiously in the yards and the lives of other people, looking for the source of their happiness. Even Epimetheus and Pandora lived happily until curiosity stirred Pandora’s mind and led her to unlock the marvelous box ornamented with jewels and golden decorations out of which all the troubles and sufferings of human beings suddenly started coming out. Hope, which came out from the box last, like a small bird, represented not only a sign of consolation to humanity, but also a warning that happiness is precious and rare and that it should be kept. The man never fully understood the meaning of these words. Happiness is not jewelry we keep in a box. These are moments that can lead us to the stars, sometimes so powerful that they can wipe out all the torments and sufferings and help us move on again. If people knew how little it takes to be happy, they would avoid the worst moments of their lives. Their pursuit would take them to what they have in themselves and in their hearts.
In pursuit of happiness, author Suzana Stojanović, April 23, 2007

~ By imagination to the truth ~

It all began out there, among the stars. On each threshold of survival, each bulwark of existence, the eternal music echoes in the warm crust of the magnificent, blue Earth. Lifeless, yet it still lives; without a weather forecast and fear, it sends its secret signals to the endless sky. Its strength is greater than infinity: its name is Imagination and its last name is Wanderer. It is always indefatigably in search of the values and truths. The value is relative. The truth is our nightmare. Will the absolute truth, if it exists at all at least in our imagination, satisfy our desires, or will it disappoint us to such an extent that we hate ourselves for having discovered it? Everything is so way ahead of us that we cannot reach it, but we can always chase that “something” with our imagination. The day will come when we will find out that it is the shortest way to the truth. And there will be more of us mortals with desires, fears and unfulfilled dreams, and all of us will die with a slight feeling of sadness. A lot of questions will be left behind; lots of sleepless nights spent staring at the stars. And once again, we won’t know where we have left our traces, we won’t know the meaning of our existence, we won’t find our homes; we will wander through the fog searching for our homeland. It’s sad that every existence is going to be only a memory and maybe some preserved image. The memory will remain for eternity, but what if there is no more eternity? Only imagination will go to eternity, taking with itself all of its secrets which have been hidden from ignorance and shortsightedness for centuries. All the moments we belonged will go with it. So, let it lead us, at least sometimes, along the paths of our existence. Let’s try to avoid sadness that oppresses us so much and makes our insignificant lives even less significant. Let’s follow the paths of our imagination, because only the feelings buried deep inside of us can take us far away from our cruel reality. Only imagination and truth will survive. Everything that exists outside of them is fragile, doomed to an end. And we don’t want the end, do we?
By imagination to the truth, author Suzana Stojanović, January 24, 2007

~ My way ~

Once upon Hemingway said that happiness comes in different shapes, and who’s the one to recognize it. The only secret is to find out what makes you happy. There are small and great wishes in your life, small and great dreams. Every dream becomes great dream and every wish becomes great wish if it comes true. They all are waiting for us somewhere behind our view. We are constantly looking for some sign to guide us towards them. We wonder how to find happiness in the labyrinth of life where there are many roads, a pathways and a crossroads? In the open sky, our guide will be sun, in the open night the stars will guide us, but how to find way in the darkness without stars? Only we, silence and darkness are standing on the open sea without rudder. For some people it is easier to find their ways in dark and silence. They see in the dark only what they want to see, and they hear clearly themselves heart beating and the whispering of their wishes in silence. At the moment I write this, I’m trying to remember the beginning of my way, but I can’t. The ways have no beginnings and ends, they gather, they split, but everyone goes somewhere. Even when you come to dead-end, you can always turn back and you are again on the new way. I remember my childhood and the morning by the window when I was thinking so long why everybody goes and rush somewhere? Where do they arrive? Why birds fly all the time and where they fly? Why the rivers flow somewhere, why the roads follow rivers? I remember my sweetest dream, when I didn’t want to wake up: I had wings, and I was flying, so far, everywhere; left mountains and seas behind myself and get back to them again; I hadn’t felt my body, only happiness without limits. I’ve dreamed again the same dream and one day I quit looking for my way, I found out that my way is inside me, without marks, without direction, endless. It begins and ends with my freedom and happiness. And I’ll go wherever I want: perhaps to follow some bird if its feathers have enough colors, perhaps to follow some boat if the open sea is great enough, some train if there are no tunnels. I’ll go to follow my wishes and I know I’ll be happy as long as my way is inside me.
My way, author Suzana Stojanović, August 11, 2006

~ People from the shadow ~

Since the beginning of time there has been a conflict between men, lions, dogs and roosters. The slaves fought to conquer freedom, the knights to save honor, and the greedy to take the throne. These battles always end after one side loses its strength. However, there is one battle that never ends. It is the one between good and evil. Man discovered it ages ago, probably out of boredom. People liked it so much that they nurtured it to this very day. Once upon a time, people were brave and fought on battlefields. Eyes in the eyes, chest in the chest, they fought for some of their beliefs until the last breath. These battles were available to everybody and everyone could participate in them. Times have changed. The battlefields turned into skyscrapers and industrial giants, whose streets are not swimming in the sun, but in the smog and shadows. In these shadows, the past and the present, justice and injustice, good and evil are struggling. On their throne there are mysterious people who don’t want the rest of the world to know they take part in these struggles. They always know what’s happening on the streets. Sometimes they are just ordinary people, people who we know and the ones we don’t know, and sometimes powerful men who have never been seen, living legends only heard of, concealed from the world in their kingdom of good or evil. They lurk quietly under the moonlight, think, judge, observe. And all of them, more or less, create the future of our civilization. We often wonder how and why something happened, who changed our lives, our future. Maybe it’s someone from our neighborhood, someone we wake up with, someone we often went out with to the nearest cafe, or maybe someone we have never met but who wanted to know everything about us. People from the shadow see and hear all and their main occupation is to preserve the existence of good and evil at any cost, even if they lose their lives over it. They easily reach their aim by passing through when we are sound asleep, but we are the ones who give them power by feeding them with our sincere wishes and secrets. We work, they just take credit for our labor and without a sound, and they make decisions about our insignificant lives. Those bad ones wait patiently for our first false move like snakes at the bottom of the ocean then they silently emerge and pull us to the bottom, to their kingdom of darkness. Evil is their only love. They care it from birth to the last day. And when all the drops evaporate, it always stays at the bottom, like sludge. So hidden, it is waiting for some new rain to melt it. In contrast to it, on the other hand is a light that is difficult to break through thick layers of darkness. Nevertheless, it sometimes succeeds in illuminating the path to us, and we think it has been a stroke of luck. We do not know that these are good people from the shadows, who bravely oppose evil, the greatest enemy of civilization, in whose flares of anger all our achievements are gone. It’s sad that more and more people are turning bad. Malice, selfishness and envy obscure their minds. Their whole miserable life is based on the destruction of others’ success and happiness. Even the sun started running away to avoid their enormous shadow. Even the good ones, who until recently have helped the hard-workers achieve more started to work. It’s probably the only thing they have left. It’s high time we ran away from boredom. Otherwise, we are going to become a part of the shadow.
People from the shadow, author Suzana Stojanović, February 17, 2007

~ Winner inside ourselves ~

Life is a labyrinth we must wriggle through, so many times lost and confused. The Sun is shining over you in one moment and the storm turbulent over you in the other moment. Every door will open only to those who believe and to those who keep going ahead, and never look back behind them. The nature’s laws are so strange: the winners are on one side, and defeated are on the other. Everyone is defeated only in the war and draw is possible only in chess game. It is easy to let to be defeated, but how to find a tiny spark inside ourselves that leads us to victory. Where to go when there is no path? On what do we rely, when there is nothing to rely upon? Where to find a shelter if the winds blow from all directions? How to win if you are your own path, rely on and a shelter? We only have ourselves, and not deliberated how much actually we have. All our strength and belief is inside ourselves, and we will reach nowhere unless we start. The winner is one who can defeat himself first, the one who has enough courage and strength to face himself, and to make the first and the hardest step when no one expect it. The winner is the one who can be born from the ashes, like Phoenix, even stronger and wiser, ready to confront with the storm and to shout: “Let me see what you can do, because I can do that as well!” Only winner knows that route to victory is long and hard, with lot of suffering and sadness, but he is also deliberated how warm is that light waiting for him at the end of the tunnel, worth to fight and live for. With tears in his eyes and wounds on his heart, winner rushes ahead and never counts his steps and victories. Winner always carries deep inside himself story of Daedalus and Icarus, and doesn’t fly too high towards the Sun, and too low towards the sea. Only the ones with big hearts win, the ones who give hand to better one as well to fallen one, the one who can believe in visions and who can hear impossible, the one who has enough courage to observe existing coasts. Winner sleeps inside us and waits to be awakens by the bells.
Winner inside ourselves, author Suzana Stojanović, September 9, 2006

~ On the wings of the whirlwind ~

There’s a genie from the magic lamp that is as old and powerful as the time itself, the master of space and insignificant lives. We cannot see it; we only hear its steps. It takes away and destroys our hopes and dreams, our hearths and homes. Only the windmills, ships, kites, balloons and even some birds look forward to it. Its name is Whirlwind. It comes and goes whenever it wants. Often unannounced, it surprises us unprepared and steals from us our moments in which we do not have time to think. At these moments we are only aware of the fact that we have to flee. Merciless and inexorable, it takes on its wings weak and helpless birds that don’t have time to grow up and that cannot find shelter. They believe that they would be better off on its wings. They yield to its power and set off into the unknown. Sometimes, these birds come back. Perhaps they are afraid of what is familiar to them, or they are just running away from life, from themselves. Leaving is often the only solution for them. They leave behind their own little ones who, with grief in their eyes, observe them disappearing in the vortex of furious winds, and who only have to wait for carrier-pigeons and some new whirlwinds, with the hope of seeing them again. Some birds have to fly. Everything they’ve got is just a memory of the burnt nest and the whirlwind that will give them hope of finding their flock. These birds never come back. Their first stop is a place where they can find a glimmer of hope. Separated from their flock, alone, without names and features, in order to survive, they change their wings and build their nests in an unknown, foreign space. Will is the only support they have. Built from suffering and fear, their nests are so strong that they can resist even the strongest winds. Some of them have been preserved so long that we can find them after many centuries. Confused scientists accidentally discover them in unexpected places. These strange birds and their more strange nests often change the flows of history and contradict many theories. The origin and movement of some whirlwinds is associated with their habitats, in which some tired wings occasionally land in order to gather power to fly again. Except them, there is also a rare species of birds that choose freedom instead of cage and whirlwind instead of offered security. They are different from all other birds on their feathers, which are bright and on wings that are wind-covered. We can see their uniqueness and beauty only if we rise to their heights. Places where they often stay are only stories and legends. These birds are elusive. They fly because they want to, and because they know where they’re flying to; they know all the whirlwinds, the old and the new ones, the slight and the strong, and they wait patiently for the day when they will fly into the new beginning and rush to fulfill their dreams on the wings of the whirlwind. They know their way back, the question is whether they want to return. Their nests often remain empty forever, and for a long time they resist the tooth of time. We observe them with yearning, but also with a smile because we know that their inhabitants somewhere in the distant world find their way and happiness. Some birds just need to let them fly. Only then, they show how far their wishes and possibilities reach.
On the wings of the whirlwind, author Suzana Stojanović, February 17, 2007

~ Painting of memories ~

In the atelier of our lives there is one painting that always stands unfinished. Lonely, it stands on a special easel, covered and separated from other paintings. In it, in detail, with stopped and tired moves, the whirlwind of a time to which our life belongs and the echoes of all our fears, desires and hopes are depicted. In its colors and layers, tearing fragments of our heart and years of hidden memories of horrible nights and mornings without the sun, are silent. Behind these lost life strongholds, only an unfinished painting remained. When we miss something, we go to the atelier, and in one of those, known only to us, memories, we look for moments that belong only to us. We touch our sorrow, and for a moment it seems to us that we are happy again and that we are walking along the path where there once was hope. Although the flowers, which we used to cover our paths, have long since withered, we still look for a way to somehow make it alive. Every one of our tears, like a drop of water, tries to wake it from a deep sleep. Our senses again feel flickers and smells, which once captured our soul a long time ago. We remember one of the many days that changed our lives, when we wanted to drift into someone’s thoughts and make our heart stop loving. After one of those days, which we received unprepared, nothing was the same again. Everything started in some unknown course. After many years, in the endless sea of memories, we are trying to find answers of many, the long-standing, questions. In the moments of re-examination, we begin to realize that much, and if we wanted, we could not stop and hold. Like spilled colors, which build their life and duration in the cracks of canvas, each of us has some sort of fate and way. Many of our attempts to escape this fate and a certain road often end with failure. Each of our desires stops in front of high walls that do not allow us to go further. All attempts become only painful memories that we once wanted something and that we were striving for something. We come to the conclusion that we were much happier before we wanted. If it were not for those rare, bright days, we would never know how beautiful life is and only one. If there was no deep pain and sadness we would not have anything to write about, our painting would not remain unfinished. It would, joyful, bathed in bright colors, stand on a wall and no one would notice it, because happiness always looks like one to another, and sorrows are always different. The first joys are rarely reiterated, and even when it happens, they remind only of faded copies, from which all the glow and beauty disappeared. Every man was a child only once. Each of us sometimes wants to return to his first painting and small dreams, to touch again everything that is pure and forgotten, which once filled his heart. The memories lead us to the first fragrant flowers from the garden of our dear mother, to the first encounters with colorful birds that would accidentally land on our windows, to our first sea and its waves, to the first shell for which we searched for hours, to the first pencil and color, to the first the knowledge that we can write our stories and that we can paint our feelings. When all these unrepeatable moments pass, we realize that we were very shortly part of one blue sky that carried our kites, that we did not have enough time to remember the smell of grass and the flickering of the silver river. After many years, we remember most clearly the views of the unknown people that we met. These views, we unconsciously record on our unfinished painting. When we notice them, we wonder why we painted them, and not the ones that no longer exist, but who gave us a lot. What we most see in our lives means only to us. We paint it in a special way, codes and strange shapes, which many tries to figure out. One part of our lives is constantly walking along the border between the clear and the unclear, so even we can not fully understand it. Every new morning brings us new drops of life that are collecting, disappearing and again falling down on our soul, heavy and inexplicable. And at the moment we do not want that at all, we hear them again persistently banging on the windows. And we can not handle with them, we can only wait for the sunshine to melt them, but the sun is not always shining on our windows. It appears and disappears at unknown intervals, and we are looking for some logic and connection in everything. Maybe darkness also exists for a reason. If it were not for it, our unfinished painting might not be bright. If there were not so many unfulfilled wishes, we might not dream. We are always hoping that everything is not still lost since we exist and our memories too. Our little life is based on the struggle between this hope and hopelessness. Nothing is the way we imagined in childhood. Everything is far from the image we taught to talk and walk. We roam around in the hallways across the big anthill, constantly searching for the traces of light. Not even memories, that once or several times we passed through those hallways do not help us find them. We look for them, like spilled colors, in every crack. Every new awakening opens up new wounds, deep like the abyss that swallowed all our joys and large candy boxes. Our senses, which have long since forgotten the tastes of these joys, begin to recognize only bitterness. It’s always gray. It’s the color of our defeat. The artists, who did not know how to present all those nameless memories and moments in which they were not sure whether they were happy or suffering, whether they were falling or getting up, whether they were leaving or returning, created it. We accepted this color and it became an integral part of our day. It is that tall wall that always stands between us and our dreams. There is not enough big painting in which we can place all those dreams, passers-by and words that we did not say. We are forced to paint in layers on this our small canvas. Its emptiness is enough to describe all our remorse, presentiment, uncertainty, and silence. Once, when space is no longer enough, we will also paint it with the last moves.
Painting of memories, author Suzana Stojanović, July 27, 2006

~ Freedom is power ~

In the endless train of our life quests, sleeping the stories of many departures into the unknown world, of suffering and goodbyes. Someone found love and happiness on the railroads, and some disappointment and restlessness. Train journeys are long, they may represent the only moment when we feel that all the time in this world belongs to us. As the images of cities and people are quickly passing by, we are slowly thinking about life. On that long journey we have to choose whether to live our own life or to let ourselves lead a fake one. We meet different people and hear their life stories which are sometimes tragic and sometimes beautiful. Some of them in this uninterrupted movement seek the island of hope, and some peace and tranquility. This is a story about a man lost somewhere on the bridge between family and work, in the crowd of people and reality. I met him by accident twenty years ago when I decided to take a step into the far away world and face all its beauty and dangers. Somewhere in that world I met him, the man who reappeared so many times in my thoughts. I remember that time when we were young and brave but at the same time conscious that freedom is our greatest treasure that has no price. Our homes were trains and travels, the sky full of stars which we observed for so long, fantasizing. And then everything changed. War ruined our wishes and dreams. We could no longer see the stars. Everything turned into dust and the wind that carried lives and people into an unknown direction. This whirlwind swallowed all our expectations. All that left was a memory and the promise we gave one another a long time ago. I’ve been keeping him deep in my heart for all these years. Now, while I’m writing this, I’m coming back to him for the last time and I remember everything with tears in my eyes; after twenty years someone from the far away world tried to refresh his memories. I don’t know how, but I knew it was him. Everything seemed unreal, I thought I was dreaming. And then, suddenly, I started waking up from that dream. My memory started to fade away somewhere into the distance, in the shadow of the man who was looking at me without the sparkle in his eyes, in the shadow of bodyguards who kept his freedom. - I’ve become a powerful man - was one of the first sentences he pronounced. - And what is power? - I asked. His blurred look wandered around the black limousine with dark windows, his bodyguards were waiting like trained dogs, being quiet, listening. An unnatural smile was spreading across the room while he was telling me about his wealth, about people whose destinies he created. While I was watching a strange man in the same body, pain was ripping through my chest. He was in the clouds not knowing that greater height brings greater desolation. That powerful man I no more recognized tried to buy my freedom with gifts, he forgot that once he knew that freedom cannot be bought and that generosity isn’t in one’s pocket but in one’s heart. He couldn’t face the fact that I remained the same, that in spite of all the temptations I managed to preserve myself; the price wasn’t important. He was planning our happiness without knowing that nothing’s more hopeless than its planning. - Do you remember the promise? - I asked. He was quiet. That was some kind of answer, too. I was creating while he was enjoying his power. I created “Wonderful world” and gave it to him as a present, I gave something priceless, the part of my heart where I kept and nurtured the memory and the promise. It was hard saying goodbye, not to the strange man in the same body but to the memories. I said goodbye and kissed the freedom. And yes, I felt powerful!
Freedom is power, author Suzana Stojanović, July 10, 2008

~ Love as an inspiration ~

Our world would be gloomy and empty if it did not offer to every single epoch something new for exploring. Nature, as the greatest mystery, does not immediately reveal its secrets to everyone. Human brain has been forcing itself from the very beginning to find out its secrets, to touch its hidden treasures. Those who have been the most persistent and the most curious dedicated their whole lives to the quest to the unknown. There is one trip that never ends. There is one eternal mystery that lives of its appearance and believes in miracles. It is a beginning and the end of everything. It gives a little and takes a lot. Some have lost their lives battles on its uncertain paths, and some have found the lost peace and inspiration. The name of it is Love. Mighty and unbeatable, it does not recognize the borders, races, religions and centuries. It left indelible marks on many paintings, in many wistful glances lost somewhere behind frames and in statues sculpted in tears and fears. The most beautiful songs and stories spoke of its origin and disappearance, the beauty of many forgotten moments, passion and pain, dream and oblivion, despair and the end. By creating them all over the eight years, Pushkin through his verses spilled an unusual love story about two people who belonged to different social strata and, to whom, this diversity did not allow them to be connected at the right moment. Sophisticated, educated and noble Onegin does not want the love of simple, honest and natural Tatyana, but when he meets life with no sense and purpose, he only then begins to discover her deep human values. Restless, he unsuccessfully tries to return his steps. He searches for what he once did not want, but he is confronted with the firm moral principles of a dignified, beautiful woman. Although still in love with him, she nevertheless decides to become a victim, rejecting his love and continuing to live a life she does not want. A famous Greek poet and musician, Orpheus, after the death of his wife Eurydice, sang captivating songs, with which he enchanted not only people, but also wild animals, rivers, streams, winds, and even the gods. Overwhelmed by pain, in a white dress and wreath of flowers on her head and in her hand, Ophelia remained to swim in the river of many beautiful verses by Arthur Rimbaud. Even today, after many years, she always appears on the stage with Shakespeare’s Hamlet to tell the story of her unhappy love, duration and disappearance. Inspired by her beauty and the purity of soul and thought, Millais records her last moments on the canvas, while looking up at the sky, sprinkled with flowers and sings quietly, she calmly lets the water to take her away. Although often unexpected and cruel, love is always inspiring: when it is unrequited, and when it is platonic, and even when it is finished. Even the emptiness of many souls, like the endless universe, becomes paintings that can still be unknown mixture of colors and feelings known only to their creators. In some moments, too strong and big, love does not leave space to other beings, does not allow other inspirations to overcome it. Many walls around the world, decorated with beautiful works, witnesses of the existence of great love and inexhaustible inspiration. On them are some, perhaps intentionally unfinished works, whose truth is cruel and painful, but perhaps too beautiful to finish. Magnificent canvases created from the game of rebellious nature inspired artists and interesting models are painted the pages of diaries of many lives and minds. Beautiful red-haired Fernande Olivier came to rest on many Picasso paintings. Fascinated by the beautiful, sophisticated and elegant Hermina Muni Dauber, Paja Jovanović is conveyed her beauty on many of their fascinating canvases. Even now, after many years, they rest side by side in the Alley of the Greats. Fantasies in love Rubens reduced the artist’s portraits of the characters of two real women: Isabella and Helena. His world became closed to all others, and is open only for his beloved wives, whose features we see in female characters in many of his paintings. Their wonderful portraits have become an indispensable part of many religious and mythological themes of the great master. Inspired by the enchanting and delicate Emilie Floge, Klimt portrait of her was captured in outlandish image composition of the painting, and created a perfection that shyly looks at us from the painting after many years. Monet so loved Camille Doncieux that he painted her as she lay on her deathbed. After the death of his beloved Gala, Dali was remained to live in the tower of the castle, which he bought for her, waiting for her to appear from somewhere and held out her hand to save him from the darkness that engulfed him after her departure. They say that those who love too much lose everything. Perhaps there is some truth in that. If in love we do not take what belongs to us, it will be taken by someone else. Inspiration is still waiting. It survived by virtue of the countless taking and giving.
Love as an inspiration, author Suzana Stojanović, December 24, 2006

~ Pride without cover ~

During one of many travels into known and unknown, during one of many usual and unusual days, while diving into half-dream and you think of everything and nothing, suddenly you meet someone. They say that the first impression is the most important. There is certain truth in that as long as it turns out different. His attitude, overt pride, something in his words that leaves us breathless and attract you. It seems that one moment has just turned into eternity. You just don’t want it to stop. Something in that look of the eye drags you to go further, to explore, to finds out more. Here a story of a human who changed own name begins, about the man who was once called somebody and today is called nobody. Just in one moment you come to glance that you were born under one happy star, that you have found the treasure on the bottom of the sea, something precious that is rarely met in a life. His shiny, mysterious and unattainable eye look is signified also his intellect. His calm and balanced words, in one strange, but in the same time logical composition, weaved a story that could be read in many ways. Security and clearness of his speech relieves you from every suspicion, simply believing in the things you hear. Somebody had his own attitude about everything and with his proud presence he showed that he believes in himself and that he stands for everything he says. And in the moments when he rarely surprises with his motion, you feel so great, somebody was thinking about you. If he wasn’t so somebody in your eyes, it would be so usual, daily. That beautiful feeling keeps you in days while life, cruel and unpredictable, does start with the other flow. In that mess only courageous, secure and witted go further, those weak remain where they are. Somebody, in the shade of its pride without cover does not want to fight and go more, his pride is more important than anything, even than his life. And you still believe that somebody is somebody, you believe that his time will come, you find a million reasons to justify him in your own eyes only, not to damage that first impression. You are listening carefully to his words. You absorb them into your soul. And then, slowly you make the puzzle, you start to know somebody up to the end. Somebody started to become nobody. In a moment you think that only wrong composition of words was guilty for that, but you cannot blame the deeds, so clear and imperishable. Somebody became nobody. In front of you one has a human hiding behind his pride without cover, totally insecure, not-defined, contradictory, inconclusive, made of lies, a human who does not know what he wants and someone who you cannot trust anymore, ever. His single weapon is pride without cover and now just a pale story once you enjoyed in. In his life traveling nobody will play so many times again his role with the aim to give little and take a lot, but he could never take the most the valuable from him and for his huge pride he could not see more and further. He will be drowned in his pride without cover.
Pride without cover, author Suzana Stojanović, November 29, 2006

~ Zebras and questions ~

We remember some cities by mimosas, some by luminous advertisements, and some by street musicians. Some of them bring joy to us, and some sadness and disappointment. Below the umbrella of shine and promise, many doubts and questions are often hidden. Light and beautiful facades do not always mean the realization of a dream. Sometimes, not so attractive places can surprise us with the opportunities they provide. Behind unknown corners are waiting for us events and encounters that we did not hope for in dreams. Some of these mysterious corners change our lives completely. As we enjoy long walks and in a warm rain that gently drains down the buildings and sidewalks, our thoughts break the white stripes that we can not avoid anyhow, no matter how hard we try. Sprinkled with streams of rain, in the late nights and in the half-dark streets, they are even more pronounced and brighter. Like magical rugs, these persistent zebras hide secret symbols that show us the way to some new shores. And we, like Aladdin, can not resist the adventures. We want to know the answers to all the questions and to explore every possible nook, passage and showcase that is indicated. Behind the iron fences, which pass by us, begins another, unknown world, full of secrets and questions. Each of these fences conceals a story, which we can only sometimes perceive. Maybe behind one of them is waiting for us the door to which we will once ring and the opportunities that we will grab once, and perhaps the zebras have led us to the wrong side of the street where unpleasant surprises await us? “Maybe” is the word from which we never separate as we walk. With each new step, we are moving away from something and approaching something. Each new zebra brings up new questions, which, like the swarms of bees, are constantly scattered around our heads and persistently stirs, as if they were looking for answers. With unknown sidewalks there are unknown trepidation and fears of possible events for which we are not ready. What if behind this new, unknown corner, suffering awaits us or people that we do not want to meet? Maybe these are our last moments after which there are no more streets or circular roads, but only one infinitely long straight line. We wonder why the end often comes unannounced. Maybe we wanted to get ready for that meeting, but someone or something did not give us time. So unprepared, some strange questions are attacking us, and we, frightened, are looking for zebras to take us to a safer place, far from them. Perhaps we have not yet fully understood the meaning of the white stripes. The abandoned beings understand them better than we do. They help them find shelters and havens, and they only bring us burden and questions. Why does a man like new streets, even if he did not meet the old ones well? Is curiosity or escape his load star? What motivates him so strongly that he is constantly walking? It may be a challenge or a fear, and perhaps both. Why are some people afraid of clowns? Perhaps because they do not know who hides behind sadly smiling faces, and perhaps because of their balloons? While so tired of the questions and answers we are heading towards some goal, we can not but observe glittering lights that, like the supernova, disperse large-scale energy. It’s the part of the city where something big is always happening. All the zebras lead to it. It is the beginning and the end of many events, the starting and coming station of many columns. Everything in it is designed to the smallest details that steal many views and attract many unknown guests. There are sadness and joy, youth and age, health and illness. It is the oldest part of the city where there are always plenty of flowers and which always promises. However, in the shadow of this promise and light, the darkness and misery of man and society and the locked gates of many uncertain streets are often hidden. Attracted by its splendor, we do not see these shadows. We hurry across the white stripes in a new, better tomorrow. We are taking long steps towards deception of a new, nameless world. And just at the moment, when we think that we have escaped from the questions, some new, heavy and difficult ones begin to appear again. Why are all squares similar? Why do fountains adorn the squares? Are they because of the squares or the thirsty world? Why is snow the most beautiful under the lights? In the end, when the winter arrives and when only barely visible contours under the snow remain from the zebras, there are always almost unbearable questions that we have no answers.
Zebras and questions, author Suzana Stojanović, February 16, 2007

~ A strange bride ~

Great works last long, they make us observe and study them as if it was our first time. We often ask ourselves: Why do we return to them? Who are the people who can create something so strong? I've been thinking for quite a long time about one movie made in 1994. It’s a special movie, not only because of great names like Anthony Hopkins and Brad Pitt. The thing I always remember when I think about “Legends of the fall” is the soothing voice and the words I’ve returned to so many times: “Some people hear their own inner voices with great clearness, and they live by what they hear. Such people become crazy or they become legends.” A friend of mine has recently told me that one should sometimes listen to their inner voices. The word “sometimes” is the right word. Maybe we should only “sometimes” set off into uncertainty, perhaps at times when we deeply believe in something or when we have nothing to lose, and perhaps being too brave isn’t a very good thing. Some people simply can’t run away from their “sometimes” and from the past, they are constantly coming back to it and waste their whole life. Miloš Crnjanski observed this in a completely specific way: “The past represents a terrible, gloomy abyss; whatever goes into that darkness does not exist anymore and have never existed.” In that darkness we meet various people, different destinies. We occasionally remember some of them and some we completely forget. This is a story about a woman whom many people forgot a long time ago, a story about a tragic destiny and an insignificant human life for which one didn’t care for. I was a child when I saw her for the last time, but that image remained engraved into my memory. Maybe I remember her because she was strange, because she dressed and acted strangely and maybe because she was called “The strange bride”. She was always going the same way at the same time. She was always dressed the same and carried the same purse. Even now, after so many years, I remember each detail of her clothes, her white scarf and a dirty white coat, dirty sandals and tights. I remember her red face and big eyes which hid from others. She was always quiet. Children threw rocks at her and chased her. The older ones, those who got used to her appearance a long time ago, didn’t pay attention. I asked many people what happened to her, but I didn’t get the answer. Now, after so many years, I’ve started searching for the data about her destiny and found not so many of them. “The strange bride” used to be a beautiful girl. Poverty made her seek her fortune, and she found herself working as a laundress for a wealthy lawyer. There she fell in love for the first time. Her own brother had destroyed all her dreams on her wedding day. Her trauma couldn’t come to an end. Embarrassed and humiliated, she ran away from everybody. A greater mental crisis came with years. She turned into a wandering ghost. She lived in the world which was only hers. And then, she disappeared quietly, taking with her the unknown world she created, all of her sorrow and the life which was hell. A Jewish proverb says that those who abandon themselves aren’t worthy of salvation. Is it so?
A strange bride, author Suzana Stojanović, July 11, 2008

~ The Prince and the Beggar ~

All stories begin and end somewhere; some of them happy, some sad. This is a story of a royal family. As in every family, the happiest are the days when babies are born. Bells were heard in the kingdom that day; a big celebration, not yet seen, was about to take place. The soft crying of the children was heard in the royal chambers. The Queen was smiling gently and the King was overwhelmed by feelings of happiness because of his two heirs. Beautiful gold coins, very carefully designed for that day, glittered beside their little heads. The King even opened the door of the dungeon, thinking that it was the right way to show his gratitude to God for being blessed with two sons. Everybody was happy, even the court beasts roared, contributing to the general celebratory mood that had been created. The celebration went on for days, until one morning, everything suddenly became still. In the royal chambers only the cry of one of the children was heard. The other Prince disappeared without a trace. The King alerted the entire army; everyone was in search of the Prince like mad, but with no success. As the time went by, the little Prince grew up and the King, living in fear that he might lose him too, treasured him like the apple of his eye. Even though the Prince had everything he wished for at the court, he was lonely and miserable. He would sadly stand beside the window for days and watch the mountains in the distance; he dreamed of other people, other kingdoms; he even fell in love with a beautiful Princess; yet, he was miserable because he could offer her nothing besides his sadness and an enormous wealth. The King, seeing his son’s grief, decided to offer a big reward to the one who could make him happy. Many people from other kingdoms gathered. The Prince was waiting eagerly for this day, hoping his life would change at last. And just when everyone thought that nothing could be done, a quiet voice was heard: “Your Royal Highness, would you like to change places? Maybe this new experience will change your life.” A beggar, in rags, stood humbly in front of the Prince and watched him constantly. - And who are you? - Prince asked. - I’m a beggar, master - he answered. The Prince found this idea so interesting that he accepted it. He put on the beggar’s clothes and, at the break of dawn went into the unknown. Thus, the Prince became the beggar and the beggar became the Prince, and both of them began wholly new lives. The Prince wandered around for days and nights, begging for some food. At first, his best friends were stray dogs, but after a while he started meeting other beggars who told him different stories which were mostly half-true. It was quite a new world in which hunger and coldness prevailed and the Prince felt that, apart from everything, sadness was slowly fading away from his heart. He had some new desires that he hadn’t been aware of before. He was fighting for his own life and survival. Having discovered that he possessed new abilities, he felt happier. He had his freedom, he made decisions about his life on his own, and that seemed very interesting to him. At the same time, the beggar enjoyed the benefit of the court; he even made the land of the kingdom larger. Leading the life of a beggar taught him not only to make something out of nothing, but also that wisdom is the greatest virtue of all. The King and the Queen loved him as their own son. One day, a beautiful Princess, who was once loved by the Prince, came to the court and fell in love with the beggar. Upon seeing her, the beggar was stunned by her remarkable beauty and fell in love at once. He told her about various adventures from his life until, one day, he decided to reveal his greatest secret to her. - I have something to show you - he said, and pulled out a beautiful, wrapped gold coin. - The man on his death bed, who took care of me when I was little, left me this, saying that I shouldn’t show it to anyone; the truth will come out when the time is right. The Princess immediately told her nanny everything and soon the Queen herself heard the story which helped her find her missing son after so many years. The bells were heard in the kingdom again, announcing the wedding, and the King decided to be righteous; he looked at the mountains in the distance, waiting for the Prince. During that time, the Prince had many adventures while wandering around the world until one day he realized that he wanted to come home. He dreamed of his Princess, of his kingdom. Does this story have a happy ending? You decide. Someone once said that everybody should know when to stop. This is the right moment, isn’t it?
The Prince and the Beggar, author Suzana Stojanović, February 18, 2007

~ Sadness in the eyes ~

An old saying says that we find out who we are by what we do, as we find out what we deserve by what makes us suffer. Each man is a star for itself, everything always happens and never and each human being is a sanctity. At the moment of man’s death the whole treasure dies with him and without people, their experience, destinies and events there’s no true history of one civilization, one nation. History is dead, incomplete and empty without them. Empty is also the truth about the complete and definite loss of trace in time that someone has ever existed somewhere, regardless of whether his life was interesting, fulfilled, troubled. With his death the traces of man’s soul as well as his unfulfilled wishes and imagination disappear. A small man is neglected, doomed to eternal anonymity and absolute disappearance in time. Crucifying on the pillar of humiliation, in order not to get hurt, he often had to bow to one side. He lives only as far as there are living beings who remember him. Maybe there was so much he wanted to ask, to say and show, but there was no chance. His questions remained forever trapped somewhere in the dungeons of fear, suspense, darkness, insecurity and trepidation. His words remained to speak silently in his endlessly sad eyes. Wishes were left in the dreams about which he was not allowed to speak. If life is all that is good, then why is it being taken? If it is all that is bad, why is it being given? It is said that a man’s life strength is measured by his ability to forget. Man remembers if he wants to, but he forgets if he can. He may remember love and rainbow after the rain, but he will never forget who is and where his roots are; and when someone accidentally or deliberately hides them, he always finds them sooner or later. It is the core of his being, a smoldering fire in his soul. A man never forgets the bottom he touched, the shadows on the roofs and the song of the devil. It persistently calls him when he is awake and while sleeping. It wants tears and fear in his eyes to confirm its power, but tears no longer exist. The fears were taken by its ominous birds. Behind them there was silence and the memory that they had made noise a long time ago. There remained a faded image of a difficult time, tired eyes and sadness, endless sadness. In just one sentence Ivo Andrić described all the cruelty of life: “Only pain lifts man up to the enormous, endless love towards people.” Is it so? Is there a place for a soul among the stars, a clean, high place where the horror of the Earth doesn’t reach? Will somebody tell the truth or everything must be a secret? In life, there is a line behind which there is no turning back. Beyond it, man doesn’t look for salvation and shelters anymore, he doesn’t sail or sink, he doesn’t wait for the tide and ebb, he doesn’t dream. There are no more fears and expectations. Only pain, memories and endless sadness remain in the eyes and only one question: WHY?
Sadness in the eyes, author Suzana Stojanović, January 12, 2008

~ The Magical World of Horses ~

Dance 2017.
Oil on canvas
 42x30 cm

Morning 2016.
Oil on canvas
 30x39 cm
» Detail

Devil 2014.
Oil on canvas
 40x28 cm
  » Work in progress

The King 2011.
Oil on canvas

 59x42 cm
» Work in progress
  » Detail

Mirror 2010.
Oil on canvas

 27x30 cm
» Detail

Friendship 2009.
Oil on canvas

42x30 cm
» Detail


Connection 2008.
 30x24 cm


Fairies 2007.
 29x32 cm


The call 2007.
 50x35 cm


Family 2006.
 40x57 cm


Sunset 2006.
 28x41 cm


Winner 2005.
Oil on canvas
 40x56 cm
» Detail


Awakening 2002.
Oil on canvas
 24x30 cm


Blue blood 2002.
Oil on canvas
 24x30 cm

Love 2001.
 31x29 cm

Curl 2001.
 40x30 cm


The old sacred books say that the Almighty made a horse out of a gust of wind. They say that all the treasure of the world is in between its magical eyes. Might and pride are within its mane. It will fly without wings and win without a sword. Because of its endurance, loyalty and obedience, one considers it one of the greatest living blessings. He nurtured and maintained it for centuries as his most precious friend and assistant. Many of his achievements in war and peace have come true with it, so it is often praised in many folk and heroic songs. Powerful empires were formed on its back and collapsed under its hooves. It tirelessly carried heavy armor, weapons, equipment and ammunition and passed through impenetrable forests and mountains, in order to win many victories together with his master. By virtue of it and the deadly chariots, Persia was once a martial superpower. If it was not for it, the world would be different; Alexander the Great would never be called the “Great” and won many territories, and Napoleon’s conquests across Europe would not have come true, but only one big dream would remain. In the battle of the mainland, the Romans used a cavalry, which was especially enhanced during the reign of Diocletian and Constantine. In the year 376, on the border of the Roman Empire, the merciless Huns appeared with their magical horses. They first started to use stirrups, and they represented a great danger for all people, even for powerful Romans. In 378, the Huns teamed up with the Gothic cavalry and defeated the Romans in the Battle of Hadrianopolis. Seventy years after this battle, the Romans led their last fight in which the largest number of horsemen took part. In 451, in the Catalaunian Plains, they were fighting, with Attila at the head, and twenty years later the Roman Empire collapsed. After the collapse of the Roman Empire and the death of Attila (453), the Empire of the Huns dominated its territory, and the border was preserved by Byzantium under the command of Belisarius, forming a great cavalry. Byzantium was constantly attacked by the Avars from the Pannonian Plain, who were famous for leaving the stirrups on their way from Mongolia to the Danube. Fear of Huns and Avars can not be compared with the fear that caused the Mongol hordes under the leadership of Genghis Khan. During 1206, the Mongols entered the northern China and destroyed it in a few years, and then began to conquer Europe. Their destruction can not be compared with the destruction in all wars, and their terrible horsemen trampled and destroyed everything that was on their way. Famous Genghis Khan became king in the thirteenth year and managed to unite all Mongolian tribes. He defeated the whole of Europe and continued conquests until his bizarre death, when he was killed in the hunt under the hooves of his own horse. China was reunited in 1279 by virtue of Kublai Khan (grandson of Genghis Khan), and became a new and progressive empire. The last Mongolian tribe, the Tatars, captured Asia and the Middle East, even threatened the Ottoman Empire, led by the fearless Tamerlane. His cavalry had only one formation unit consisting of ten thousand horsemen. Each horseman acted independently, but as a whole they were very well organized and disciplined. However, after Tamerlane’s death, in 1405, his empire collapsed, and the rest were only memories of terrible destruction, accomplished with the help of famous horsemen. Proud and noble, their horses are born only to triumphs: when everyone gives up, they move forward; when we all go down, they climb to new heights; when all the retreat, they’re hard as rocks, defying all odds. The lances of many turbulent times were smashed on their powerful chest. Throughout history, they have always been faithful companions of people and contributed to the development of civilization. We meet with them even on, twenty-eight thousand years before the new era, old paintings in the Chauvet Cave, in Ardèche canyon, in France, and on lovely statuettes made of stone, bone and horn, found in a cave in southwestern Germany. In ancient times, some nations considered horses sacred animals. Their endurance has laid the foundations of many fortresses and ramparts, and their divine beauty appears in many paintings, illustrations, frescoes and imposing statues all over the world. Marcus Aurelius, emperor and philosopher, is remarkably presented with the statue of horseman at the Capitoline Hill in Rome. Unknown soldiers and heroes made in bronze and stone, rest with their magnificent friends on many vast squares. Their miraculous strength and legendary beauty are an inexhaustible source of inspiration to many artists, who have made a major contribution to cherishing the value and beauty of this magical animal. Glow in their eyes left a unique and indelible trace, and their deep mysterious view accompanies us in all walks of life. Although we believe that we are close enough to them, and we know enough them, they were and have always remained a big secret. The magical world of horses is all around us, and yet we have not been able enough to examine and discover it. Unique Palomino horses, known by their golden body and silvery white tail, are the big mystery for scientists. The graceful, magnificent and playful Lipizzaner is a master of the arenas and parades. We look at it with admiration while performing a dance, known only to it. We enjoy in rare moments of elusive beauty and snowy whiteness, and we wonder how come there’s so much magic in one being. Beautiful Haflinger, with light mane and a strong heart, is struggling with rugged landscapes and the sharp peaks of the Alps. The Andalusian horse cruises in Spain, while its luxuriant, wavy mane, fluttering in the wind. Intelligent and obedient, it was the truest friend of many kings across Europe, and is considered the best horse in the world. Agile and graceful, black Friesian participated with knights in many medieval wars throughout Europe. Gorgeous and priceless, the horses are present everywhere: in our past, present and future; in fairy tales and forgotten wilderness, in the world’s greatest battles, in the traces of endless caravans of warm desert sand. If the road takes us to the vast expanse of India, on its gates will welcome us proud and elegant prince of the kingdom of Marwar desert, which for centuries has tirelessly carried warriors of the Rajput tribe on their strong backs. Its Arab and Turkmenistan origin identified in the lively movement and high durability. North American Mustang with its magic won the whole world: beauty, grace, speed and independence are intertwined in it. While it rushes across the field to meet the setting sun, it seems to us that the flame erupts from its lush mane. Because it symbolizes strength and freedom, it is distinguished as one of the most common motifs in art. Even Sappho, one of the greatest poets and the most famous women of all time, in her verses says that the most beautiful thing on the black earth is the cavalry squadron. Tang Dynasty painting is especially well-known for processing the themes of knight’s ambient and wide landscapes with horses in the gallop. In the paintings of Paolo Uccello, which represent the battle of the horsemen, the depth of space opens up in the confusion of intertwined horse legs. We meet with their epic beauty in the works of many Renaissance artists (Leonardo da Vinci, Albrecht Dürer, Raphael, Titian, Benozzo Gozzoli), the canvases of Baroque greats (Rubens, Velázquez, Van Dyck) and in the age of Romanticism (Delacroix, George Stubbs). Painting and drawing them is a big challenge and temptation. They attracted not only by its external beauty, but also that of unattainable beauty that they carry deep within themselves for centuries. The whole eternity made of rare precious stones and all their pride, dignity and intelligence are reflected in their magical eyes. Those reflect a secret world, hidden somewhere in the mist of the rocky mountains, in the dust of horse racing, in the call of wild herds, in the spring green of flower meadows, in the company of the gods. Born in Greek mythology, they will continue to travel all the time and to shine with their whiteness, hooked in the chariot of war god, Ares. Some of them disappeared on the waves of the sea going to meet god Poseidon. Emerged as the fruit of Poseidon and Medusa’s love, begun in soft grass and in the scent of spring flowers, magical Pegasus of golden wings, flew to Zeus’s castle, the father of all gods, and brought lightning and thunders to him. One constellation, which in the sky shines somewhere, between Andromeda and Aquarius, bears its name. There are many Chinese, Russian and Greek legends about the unicorn, for which there is a belief that he lived until the fourth century BC. It was a symbol of purebred, honesty, and sincerity. The hunters’ intention to catch it was futile. It was believed that its horn had incredible power. According to Chinese traditions, unicorn first appeared in 2697 before the new era in the palace of Emperor Huang Di. This period, which relates to its appearance, is considered incredibly well and gender. In those years musical instruments were found and the first time all Chinese tribes were united. The unicorn appeared for the second time before the death of the emperor in order to bring him to his grave, to the land of the greatness. Brave and loyal, horses remained to live on the pages of many works of great philosophers and writers. The extraordinary works of the Greek philosopher Xenophon still represent valuable material for all those who want to study them. Their eyes are persecuted, harassed and forced us to think. Once we connect ourselves to that magical view, it is very difficult to separate from it. It follows us everywhere. Many stories and legends, created on the slopes of an unexplored and interesting world, are woven in it. Proud-spirited and diverse, horses maintained their characteristics despite many hardships. Rare are the moments when we can hear the whisper of their soul. They speak with movements and views. Always beautiful, inscrutable, different and their own, they connect centuries and civilizations. They gallop with its chest, withstand efforts with heart and win with character and a fiery spirit.
(Artist Suzana Stojanović)