During our first meeting, Arsen told me that he had information that was the solution needed to understand a big problem in the Balkans. He emphasized that he doesn't have the time or energy to fix anything, but internal pressure forces him to tell someone what he knows, even if it wasn't used for any purpose. He said that he had to describe it, even if it didn't change anything, and even if it were all just empty words, he would tell me.

He mentioned that at some point, I might think he is just a talkative young man with nothing else to do and is looking for anyone to listen to his nonsense, but this is certainly not true. Initially, he wanted to dissuade me even from the possible thought that would appear in my head. To reinforce the impression that he is not and will not be a talker, he said that the thesis of talkativeness was explained a long time ago, as when you talk too much, chattering like a mill, and not taking care of what is said. I smiled a little at that, and he remained earnest, claiming that he knew very well what he was talking about and that there was no time in his life for talking nonsense. He repeated several times, very seriously, that he had no more time.

At the time, I could not understand his lack of time. Still, due to the persistence and seriousness of his facial expression, I somehow accepted his claim seriously without delving into it and looking for the reasons that led him to repeat his words several times. Namely, I had decided to spend that afternoon aimlessly and spontaneously, so no matter what, the company of such a severe and persistent young man did not bother me.

Somehow ecstatic, as if dazed by sudden knowledge, he claimed that he knew why the accident happened in the Balkans and that no one else knew. According to him, people were in a delusion, and because of it, they were unable to understand what and why it happened to them in the past years of their lives, and because of this, they will suffer the consequences for a long time to come. Because of this ignorance and suffering the consequences, they will not be able to correct evil deeds until they enter the truth and reality of what they are with their lives, rejecting the belief that they are already what they want to be.

Of course, it was hard for me to believe in his alleged knowledge, but I still accepted to listen to his story, in which he was wholly absorbed and engrossed as if he was experiencing everything while he was telling it. He had just decided to tell someone his story after a struggle with himself, with his pride and fear of appearing ridiculous or the inner shame of appearing stupid.

I wouldn't want anyone to think that I accepted the role of listener lightly and without thinking. And when I mention thinking, let's be clear, some people need longer and others shorter thinking time to decide, which is still correct in both cases. I did not intend to tie my time and thoughts to such a young and unreputable man, and I was already tired of constantly falling into misery greater than the previous one. However, something I don't even know what attracted me and kept my attention on that story of his was.

After a while, I enjoyed Arsen's story and company much more than I expected. There, though, I must admit, sometimes I was overcome by a feeling that told me that his story must have originated in some dark place, and then I would like to give up hanging out with him.

I thought my darkness and unhappiness were enough for me, and I still don't need other people's nebulae or unfulfilled dreams. But the very next moment, I was getting a bunch of unrelated but exciting information that made me attentive and curious until the end.

Something told me that something much more terrible happened in his story than the awful events he told me at that moment, and I wanted to wait and hear. That story of his took on more straightforward and specific forms with each new encounter and left a strong impression on me, and I decided, as far as possible, to pass that story on to others.

Then I wondered how many friends we are given in this miserable time we spend walking this earth. I have just met one.

Arsen told me that for years he had the opportunity, or the misfortune, to observe strange and uncontrolled events that he could not understand. For him, it was many years; for you older people, it is undoubtedly just a funny saying, considering his age.

Sometimes these events made him happy, and sometimes they made him sad. Most of the time, he couldn't understand them. For the last few years, he has been writing down what he observed from this, a kind of strange perspective that he entered against his will.

As far as I understand, it is about the fact that, in some inexplicable way, he traveled through time and closely observed some events that someone else chose for him, or it was all just a coincidence. Sometimes he also thought that all this was not true and not reality. It was just a figment of his imagination, which was as uncontrolled as his travels and observations of events that often had nothing to do with anything known to him.

Writing down the events in this way, he noticed that some of them were connected and could be used to make a puzzle understandable to the human mind and acceptable.

Above all, he and his mind needed that puzzle, which was crying out for understanding. Suppose it all seems understandable to someone else; all the better. But he was undoubtedly the most interested man who wanted to understand the events he saw and what was behind them.

He entrusted it to me to judge whether he arranged it all correctly. All people believed in something. As far as I understood Arsen, he believed in his story. I remember well when he told me:

This world is an absolute madhouse, and madmen run it! And now I'm wondering, who is in the insane asylum? Are they the same in there as their managers? Is everything arranged like, according to Shakespeare, that a crazy people needs a crazy leader, or are the people in there different from their managers? In any case, while the managers are as they are, those inside, whoever they are, have a chance once there is a change of manager. If people are crazy, even in a madhouse run by lunatics, there is no chance or hope for people! Despite the situation I am in, I would like to loudly wish and say, based on my visions, that it is still to be hoped that there are some different people inside who, when they stand at the helm, will change their lives and turn from craziness and stupidity into a conscious life satisfaction in the joy of existence, only who will wait for it, which, as I said, in addition to all the misfortune, is still uncertain. Uncertain insofar as no one knows, nor can find out, what these people who are now in the insane asylum are like.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

When he explained his background, he told me he was a nameless student of a non-existent school. Of course, he was joking, but he was also surprised by his joke because he commented on it by saying how strange it is that a person has time to think of a joke even in moments when he wants to explain some dramatic moments of the past and present from which the future may arise, and all under minimal space of time. I remember he also thanked me for allowing him to be in such a mental state that allowed him to joke, and such gratitude made me uncomfortable.

Arsen was, in fact, a descendant of a captured German soldier from World War II. Even after the end of the war, that soldier did not want to return to Germany but instead married his Serbian grandmother, who had fallen in love with him. Of course, as it always happens in similar stories, the love was mutual, or, as Arsen puts it, the soldier grandfather fell head over heels in love.

That soldier was so politically active in their village that he even became a communist, which was a great honor in his time.

From that marriage of a captured soldier and a Serbian girl, Arsen's father was born, who, when he grew up, completed military school and became an officer. Because of this military call, Arsen's family often changed their residence. Namely, for some reason, the army moved its officers from one place to another every few years, and for the officer, it was normal. It may have been normal for the officers, but was it the same for their children? I doubt it, but we're moving on.

The father chose a Croatian woman from Zagreb as his life partner, or she chose him. So, from that, Arsen says, a mix - a German, a Serbian woman, their descendant, and a Croatian woman - was born. He was a delighted child in a highly harmonious family. His father and mother loved and respected each other, thus enabling him to be respected as a child whose ideas and wishes were discussed and those of their elders, father, and mother. He was given the attention and love that one could only wish for, so the memory of that period always causes joy in his heart and regret for the time that is no longer there.

Grandpa 'Svabo,' everyone in the village called him, died before Arsen was born. Arsen only knew what his grandfather looked like based on the story and a yellowed black and white photo that his father kept in his album. Arsen's grandmother also died before Arsen's birth.

And now the shock. I clearly remember when Arsen informed me about his family situation, and he said it perfectly calmly. Because of his peace, I instantly thought it was expected, something that happens to every person at least once. And that feeling of hindrance made me know once again that one should never hastily draw conclusions based on vague feelings. Later, it became clear that this man was not calm but relived the terrible accident that happened to him for the umpteenth time.

Arsen's father and mother died in the war in the Balkans in 1993. Their car was hit by a stray, or deliberate, shell when they returned from visiting their friends one evening during the war truce. According to him, Arsen miraculously survived. He was alive, he said, only because he was not wanted or because he often traveled through time, so the hot iron carried by the force of the explosion did not reach him.

Immediately after the loss of his parents, his mother's brother, who lived in London, took him to England to escape the horrors of the war raging in the Balkans.

Arsen was born in the seventies of the 20th century, and, as is well known, he was caught up in the many adversities that that age brought with it. Of these many misfortunes, a good part was stuck in the Balkans, where he also had the trouble of being stuck as being born at the wrong time and in the wrong place. Of those calamities that, as I said, seemed to stick to the Balkans, the one that occurred to Arsen's family was just one in a series of human calamities. Those accidents did not choose the people or the time when they would happen. The only characteristic was that they changed very often, particularly in the Balkans. The only thing that needs to be clarified is whether they were created and guided by human or divine hands.

And let's clear up one more thing! Arsen knew that he was not the only one who thought about being born at the wrong time and in the wrong place, but he wanted to join the crowd that screamed:

Why me?! Why me?!

Arsen was sure that he saw some parts of the events that he conveyed to me even before he started writing down the sightings. Unfortunately, those testimonies will forever remain untold because Arsen forgot them. And he shouldn't be blamed or judged for that because it seems to be the most similar to our dreams. Let's all try to remember a dream from nine or more years ago, and everything will be clear.

I became very interested in Arsen's story, and we arranged several meetings where Arsen tirelessly told me and told me as if it was the last thing in his life, all that he had arranged. He also used his notes, which I tried to decipher, but they were written in a scribble that was utterly illegible. Sometimes he would break away from the story of his visions and tell me about the crazy things he did while in London and the people he met. To my satisfaction, he spoke very impressively and very vividly.

At one time in London, he was utterly lost. He practically lived only on alcohol. His stomach rebelled against it, so he vomited constantly, but he continued to get drunk again and again. He often woke up in his own vomit and urine in infamous places and the worst dens whose regular guests were the scum of the most diverse human profiles. One day, he didn't even know how, after the morning he woke up for the umpteenth time dirty, torn, and smelling of vomit, sweat, and stale alcohol, he came to his senses, came to himself, and said - enough. It came to him quite a bit at the last moment, and that's when it saved his life.

From that story of his, I learned about Herman, Oto, and their battle from World War II, and he also told me what he saw in his visions when the Russians attacked and conquered Berlin. He also mentioned some other events that I had yet to manage to understand or put together in a logical whole.

Since there was a lot of information in his story, I also started taking notes. So we managed to see each other three times that week, and when I came on Saturday at the time when we had arranged the fourth meeting, Arsen did not show up.

I waited for him for a long time, amused myself by watching the clouds that were beginning to gather in the west when I came. Then they slowly spread towards the middle of the sky as if they were controlled by some invisible hand, and the sun broke through them with its golden streaks. It wasn't as steamy as the first time. In the east, everything was clear, even when I decided I'd had enough of waiting.

Since I didn't know anyone who knew Arsen and since I didn't know where he lived, I couldn't even look for him, which indeed occurred to me many times.

Our previous meeting was in my rented apartment. At that time, I lived in a reasonably decent apartment on First Railway Line Street on the second floor of a relatively new building.

Arsen, therefore, knew where I lived, and if he wanted to continue contact, he would find me. With such thinking, I calmed down and stopped worrying, but I must also admit that it would be wrong not to hear the whole story he started telling me.

A whole week had passed, and there was no sign or word from Arsen.

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