#PERIOD AFTER Jasmina Tesanovic - 05/04/1999- Belgrade


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April 5th, 1999
Today I feel like Rubliov. I don´t want to write, I´ve seen too much pain and suffering too close, my language will be silence, and blank space. Whatever I do or say doesn´t count anyway. I don´t want to be anybod´s accomplice in living and writing as if everything was OK.
One day, somebody, maybe I, will make a bell out of the memory of these null days, like the boy that makes Andrei Rubliov speak up again. Last night when we spoke about personal, moral and public war, I thought I was Rubliov´s boy who would make the bell notwithstanding the war. But this morning I woke up the invisible anonymous girl I always was and still am; the magic lasted only until the first low flight planes thundered over our heads at dawn.
The most terrible thing in a way is that after all, nothing really happens: in the morning we are alive, we have food, we have electricity, we have even luxury articles like whiskey... But in a way, we were there, where it all happened, once again not us but to somebody else. As in false executions we survive our own death every night, our fantasizes of the death of our beloved, with more no physical evidence than a few more white hairs...
The nationalist/patriotic heat around me makes me bear even worse the planes above my head and flames in front of my eyes. I am cut off emotionally from my own body, afraid of physical pain, least of empty big ideas like clouds. On the other hand, I fear that until the bad guys come to your door and take you away, we will not know who the bad guys are or believe it happened really to our neighbors.
I entered a pharmacy, the shelves were full, fuller than ever, but you could´t get aspirins or tranquilizers, and everybody was asking for those. The supplies were out.
Another detail: sweet shops are full, people are buying sweets like crazy, emotional distress, lack of love...
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