Zvone – Inner Dialogue

Some Things Cannot Be Restored The Things Time Never Returns Some things in life cannot truly be restored. A missed opportunity.  A day that already passed.  Trust once broken.  Words already spoken.  Moments that disappeared before we realized they mattered. Sometimes I wish I could move time backwards and do certain things differently. Say less. Say more. Stay longer. Leave earlier. Listen better. Be wiser. Be calmer. Be less stupid. Unfortunately life does not include an “undo” button which is probably a good thing. Humanity would spend half its existence repeatedly correcting awkward conversations, regrettable hairstyles and messages that should absolutely never have been sent after midnight. Still, there are moments I would gladly revisit. Not because they were perfect.  But because now I finally understand them. Which is, of course, emotionally useless timing. The Strange Return Of Old Pain What fascinates me is that the things I no lon...

The House, The Dreams and the Radiators A Very Unproductive Beginning Yesterday I was tired, although I had not actually done very much. It was one of those strange kinds of exhaustion where the body is not exactly collapsing, but the mind behaves as if it had been carrying sacks of cement uphill all week. By evening I gave up pretending to be productive and went to bed early. I fell asleep quickly enough, but the night itself behaved like an old washing machine — constantly stopping, rattling and starting again. I woke several times, although never fully enough to stay awake. Toward morning the dreams arrived.  Not ordinary dreams. Those dangerous dreams that are so realistic you almost begin negotiating with them as if they were legal reality. The Intruder In The Darkness At first I heard some kind of noise downstairs. Something falling. Then loud bubbling and knocking in the heating pipes, as if the entire old house had suddenly developed digestive problems during the night....

We Were Both Right A few friends and I were sitting beneath the shade of a large apple tree, escaping the afternoon heat and discussing a traffic accident that had happened the previous day. One of them mentioned that a motorcyclist had died after crashing head-on into a car driven by an older woman. Apparently she crossed into the opposite lane for reasons nobody understood. Naturally, the discussion immediately transformed into unofficial forensic investigation conducted by men holding coffee cups. My friend shook his head and said: “I’m not saying the woman wasn’t at fault, but these motorcyclists… they drive like lunatics. No wonder there are so many fatal accidents.” And instantly, without even thinking properly, I reacted. “No, wait a minute. Motorcyclists are often hard to notice. Older drivers lose reflexes, attention drops with age, maybe she simply didn’t see him…” At that exact moment a memory flashed through my mind — a motorcyclist who once appeared beside my car ...

Drunk By Obligation Yesterday one of the younger nephews celebrated his eighteenth birthday. The family organized a proper village-style celebration. A maypole was raised, long tables appeared under a canopy, crates of drinks materialized from somewhere mysterious, and relatives operated with the quiet efficiency of people who have organized exactly the same event at least forty-seven times before. Most guests were his generation — classmates, friends from town, loud boys pretending to be men already and girls pretending not to notice them pretending.  The atmosphere started warming up already in the late afternoon. Naturally, the first thing served was whisky. Because apparently in human civilization the transition from “child” to “adult” is traditionally marked by immediately poisoning the liver. The Ritual Begins At first everyone behaved relatively normally. People laughed. Music played. Someone grilled meat. Someone carried chairs around nervously as if chai...

Why Do People Choose the Worse Option? I do not actively participate in politics. I have never joined a political party, waved flags at rallies or spent entire evenings arguing online with strangers whose profile picture is usually either a wolf, a national flag or a blurry photo taken inside a car. And honestly, political debates rarely move me emotionally. But that does not mean politics does not interest me. Unfortunately, politics has the unpleasant habit of becoming interested in me whether I want it to or not. Whoever governs eventually decides about taxes, laws, freedoms, prices, restrictions and countless small details capable of quietly ruining a perfectly decent day. So I observe politics from a safe distance, like a man watching two drunk excavator operators trying to reverse at the same construction site. Politics Turns Intelligent People Into Lunatics What fascinates me most is how quickly otherwise normal people transform when politics enters the conversation....

You Only Listen to the People You Respect This morning the conversation on the terrace ended surprisingly quickly. Slightly awkwardly, actually. We were drinking coffee, half awake, staring at the hills while pretending we understood the world better than the people currently running it. The discussion drifted toward politics, economics and global tensions — one of those enormous topics that no human can truly understand completely, but everyone confidently explains anyway. My wife reads a lot of articles about politics, economics, ecology and social issues. And not just casually. She follows journalists whose opinions she deeply respects. According to her, these people write intelligent, thoughtful analyses that explain the world properly. Which is fair enough. Some of them really are excellent writers. The problem appears when we start discussing those same topics together. “Read the Article First” At one point I started talking about economic trends, global power stru...

While People Are Still Alive When people die, we suddenly become very good at remembering them. We say beautiful things. We bring flowers. We write long messages about how important they were. We stand beside graves in silence, looking serious and thoughtful, as if we have finally understood something profound about life. And yet I often wonder what any of that actually means. Not in a cynical way. Mourning is human. Loss hurts. But still, somewhere in the back of my mind there is always the same stubborn thought: if someone truly mattered to me, perhaps the important part was not standing beside their grave afterward, but sitting beside them while they were still alive. That idea has followed me for years. The Friend I Forgot To Call I once had a friend who suffered a terrible motorcycle accident. Recovery took him eight months. Broken body, endless rehabilitation, pain, uncertainty, all the things that suddenly reduce a person’s world to hospital walls and slow movement. Ba...