Birthday

Living day by day, for excactly 55 years now, I’ve come to realise: time doesn’t pass. We do. Everything else does. There’s just this one eternal day that keeps repeating, while everything inside it shifts, morphs, grows old, grows strange. Myself included.

I was born on a Sunday. My mother told me that. I don’t remember it, of course, but I believe her. It tracks, there’s something relaxed in me. Sunday-soft. Except always ready for Monday. That’s me: calmly tense. I came into the world at five in the morning when decent people were still asleep. Maybe I wanted to arrive unnoticed. There’s a shy thread in me, a false humility that clings to the deeply traumatised.

When I was born, they called me “Carrot” because orange hair peeked out first. Then the rest of me followed—pale, translucent, plugged into my mother with a slimy cable. Back then, kids came with cords. No Bluetooth or USB. Things change, but that’s probably not the point.

Sundays are for artists. For people who don't do “normal” jobs but drift through the world painting, writing, making music—or just wondering. If God took the seventh day to rest, I’m sure He spent it sketching or putting together playlists. I like to imagine God chilling with His “Post-Birthing Mix,” content with creation, just vibing.

I took my time growing up. Still am. My mom says I refused to walk for the longest time. Sunday babies don’t rush. Sunday’s for lounging, recovery from a bender, curling up with stories and comfort food.

School went well until it didn’t. Around second grade, I got bored. After that, I did the bare minimum to keep my mom from worrying and my teachers mildly confused.

I was a talented drummer at 12y, and later, a musical nomad. Still am. Sometimes I wonder: when does one stop being “talented”? Do you have to succeed to lose the title? Maybe not. Maybe it sticks. “Here lies the talented Dušan”—could be my epitaph. Or not.

I loved drawing. Loved stories. My mother, a solo parent, made them up for my brother and me every night. Later, we took turns returning the favour. It was a beautiful exchange and a well-earned break for her.

Today, I was supposed to be in Dublin for a wedding party I wanted to crash in on, but my youngest daughter got sick, so that was that. No Dublin. No party. Just this: my birthday, my thoughts, and these words.

What do I want for my birthday?
Everything.
But mostly my children’s health.

What have I learned?

It’s rarely too late to begin again. Sometimes, sure, but mostly not. You just need a little despair and a lot of inevitability. Those are easy to come by

Also,
Hair doesn’t disappear from your head. It just relocates to your back, ears, and nostrils.

And if you don’t have boobs now, be patient. They’re coming.

And, yes;

Love is the strongest force in the universe.

But sometimes, Love is not enough…

HBTM