(PHILOSOPHY FOR BEGINNERS, AND INSECTS)

OH YES! WE HAVE ALL, AT LEAST ONCE, SAT DOWN TO READ A CONTRACT THAT HAS MORE SENTENCES THAN THE SAHARA HAS GRAINS OF SAND – the tiniest ones, the kind that get into your underwear and torment you for three days. And then, after your pupils turn into QR codes, you realize you have fewer rights than a ficus in a windowless office. Because the contract clearly says:
“You have the right to… absolutely nothing. But thank you for reading 87 pages of fine print!”
And you, ever the optimist, wave your hand as if shooing away a bug and say, “As long as I’m healthy.” Your inner skeptic simply asks: “Are you?” And so the story begins…

“Somewhere, in a parallel universe called ‘Reality,’ there exists a vast empire. One not ruled by kings or emperors, but by contracts. Every citizen receives their first contract at birth, neatly packed in a folder labeled: ‘Welcome to the system!’ At first, you think it’s just a formality. You sign, because everyone signs. Then comes the second contract, then the third, then the one‑hundred-and-twenty‑seventh… contracts for work, for life, for breathing… People walk the streets carrying folders and speak in code so the algorithms won’t hear them.
‘How are you?’ – ‘Waiting for approval to feel.’
Institutions are like hungry beasts: they feed on signatures. The more signatures, the stronger they get. Rules multiply like rabbits, regulations like their cousins, and sub‑regulations – those are the small, nasty ones that jump on your back when you least expect them. No one knows who writes the tiniest print. They say it’s ancient bureaucrats, ghosts from the past, who enjoy turning your life into a sudoku puzzle. In the end, everyone becomes a slave. Slaves with logos – of a corporation, or the state, or their own name – all wearing the same expression: ‘I signed, therefore I exist.’ Of course, no one asks whether you want this. They say your signature brings happiness. Not to you, of course – to them. To you, it brings the feeling that you’ve ‘taken care of it,’ while actually opening the door to a labyrinth with no exit. Banks love you, the state loves you, cities, notaries, business partners – everyone adores you. So much so that they’d gladly introduce a loyalty card: every tenth signature free, and the twentieth earns you a fridge magnet.”

And as you thoughtfully listen to your inner skeptic, you jolt suddenly, as if someone poked you with a fork, and you start thinking about freedom, rights, positive vibrations, and everything you’ll one day throw in their face when they shove another contract under your nose. In that burst of enthusiasm and mental kung fu, you glance at that little bug (yes, the same one from the beginning of the text) casually strutting across the page – and you realize it’s giving its own TED Talk about the simple life: no contracts, no stress, just a leaf and a plan – walk, eat, fall, get up, poop, then walk again.

And then insight hits you harder than coffee at your in‑laws’: maybe the whole philosophy of life is about being a bit more of a bug‑guru, and a bit less a slave to paper. Because when stress grabs your soul again, just ask yourself: “What would the bug do?”
The answer is right there – it would keep walking. And possibly poop (because it can). No drama.

The bug simply knows something you’re still learning: it’s all just a piece of paper. And a leaf? It eats it. No negotiations, no complaints, no notaries.*

* Maybe you could too – purely metaphorically – and if things really get tight, “deal with it” later… bug‑style, along the way, while life rushes past you like a high‑speed train. After all, half of things have already been decided somewhere up there; we just receive the notification late – like a package the post office forgets and delivers when you don’t need it anymore.

Linda Poščić Borovac, for Poduzetnik magazine, February 2026.

(A MICRO‑PHILOSOPHY OF SYSTEM SURVIVALWITH BONUS LESSONS FROM INSECT DIPLOMACY)

You love clicking on scandals, don’t you? Who did what to whom, why, how – on repeat. Drama is your breakfast, judgment your dessert. The algorithm knows you better than your own mother. The first click? An accident. The next one? Even worse. And when was the last time you clicked on kindness? Gratitude? Inspiration? You don’t remember? Of course you don’t – it’s not trending. It’s easier for you to like drama than to recognize goodness.

And so your inner skeptic is already sounding the alarm, because it’s unclear to you that kindness is a vitamin for the soul, not a pill you “take when needed after life smacks you in the face.” And yes, it’s time for change – not the horoscope kind, but the kind that shakes you to the bone. Because if you still find it more interesting to click on “who cheated on whom” instead of “who helped someone,” then you didn’t just lose time – you lost your compass.

And to your inner commentator, that surviving voice of reason, there’s nothing left to do but smack you with reality via a little story:

“Imagine walking around like a GPS from 2007 – the one that overheats the moment you look at it and keeps mumbling ‘calculating route,’ but never actually calculates the route. That’s unconsciousness: comfortable, soft, like a blanket for the ego – except it’s made of polyester and it itches. But you still say, ‘Nah, I’m good.’

Awareness is a remedy, but you won’t find it at the pharmacy. This one you have to mix yourself, and the worst ingredient is  you. Sounds awful, but it’s actually banal: you stop, connect two and two, and voilà – you realize something is happening. Or better yet, someone is happening.

Now, the old story about ants: a hundred black and a hundred red ants live in a jar like in a Swiss village – peace, order, cheese. Until someone shakes the jar. Only then do they go crazy at each other, convinced the problem is color. And the real enemy? The one shaking the jar. Scumbag.

It’s the same with people: we divide, gnaw, cheer, frown – and rarely does anyone lift their head and ask: ‘Wait, who’s shaking this thing?’ To do that, you have to be awake. Because only those who are asleep are angry. And the one who’s shaking knows that very well.

That’s why they say: divide and rule. Or even better: dull them and control them. And if that doesn’t work – invent something new, people aren’t watching anyway.”

And of course – the moment your inner skeptic raises its head, it hits you with the truth like a wet rag, no warning. And in that moment you realize it all started when you were little, when they convinced you that the date of death of some 14th‑century king would one day save your life. They taught you the sacred commandments of schooling too: shut up, memorize, don’t think – breathing optional. And so you grow up convinced you’re free, while actually you’re just waiting for the media to tell you what to love, what to fear, and whom to hate. Drama and chaos become your normal, because if you’re born in an asylum, it’s hard to notice the walls. And if the asylum is home, who even checks if there’s an exit?

And just when you finally snap from everything you’ve swallowed in life, the universe sends you a reality check: a few ants parade across your cup of tea like they’re on an all‑inclusive vacation. You, the grand master of awareness, swing, commit a mini massacre and – of course – spill the tea. That’s what it looks like when you fight the wrong enemy.

And the ants? They just carry on, like you’re a backdrop in their documentary. They carry loads three times their weight, steal your cookie, ignore you with an elegance no expensive life coach can sell – and one of them even farts as it passes*, just to confirm who’s really in charge.

And then it hits you: maybe it’s time to be less amazed by them and more by yourself. That’s where freedom begins – when you realize the war isn’t with the ants, but with your own illusions.

* Maybe you could do it too… you know what they say, the worst thing is to keep it all inside. That’s how you just build pressure and end up with shitty ideas. And then, hmm, maybe you finally click on something good.

Linda Poščić Borovac for Poduzetnik magazine, March 2026.

(EXCEPT MAYBE A FEW PERSISTENT EARTHWORMS – Questions of self-respect)

You’ve definitely been to a concert where the performer is late. Not the academic fifteen minutes – but an hour, two, three. And you wait. Because you’re fans. Because you love the songs. Your heart is light, the day is good, there’s been a bit of drinking, so you think – fine, we’ll forgive it.

But have you ever stopped to ask yourself: who is this guy, or girl, or these people, that they feel entitled to do this? Which part of “respect your audience” did they miss? Without you, who would listen to them, buy their albums, click on YouTube? They’re late, and you still applaud them. As if they’ve done you a favor just by showing up at all.

And it’s not just them. Others are late too: late to meetings, because their ego is bigger than the clock;
late with replies, because in their life you’re on “seen”; late with payments, because “the invoice will be settled once Jupiter aligns with Mars (by the way – god of war)”; late with apologies, because they never planned on them anyway.

How long are we going to tolerate that kind of disrespect? How long will the masters of lateness slide through life as if everything is forgiven just because they have a microphone, a title, or a good excuse? It’s time to stop applauding those who actually ignore and disrespect us.

Because when someone is three hours late – or half an hour – that’s not style. That’s rudeness in rhythm.

And your inner skeptic rolls their eyes, unable to believe you’re still waiting for that wake-up slap. No rebellion, no twitch – just quiet postponement, as if someone else will wake up instead of you. And then, of course, it whispers the worst thing: that the real problem is actually you. Or rather – all of us. Because we tolerate everything.

As if we’re collecting tolerance stickers for the album “How to Be a Doormat in 12 Easy Steps.”
We tolerate lateness. We tolerate disrespect. We tolerate other people’s frustrations, outbursts, passive aggression, arrogance, emotional illiteracy, professional laziness, and general life irresponsibility. We tolerate “that’s just how he is,” “oh, let it go, she’s sensitive,” “he didn’t mean it,” “tomorrow.”

We’ve become walking tolerance. Tolerance for everything and everyone. So much tolerance it could be declared a world heritage site.

People – where did integrity go? Chivalry? Responsibility? Self-respect? That inner sense of I have a foundation, I have a stance, I have depth – something you can’t buy with discounts, promises, or wars.

There’s no responsibility if you prefer excuses. There’s no consistency if you prefer postponement. There’s no self-respect if you prefer applauding those who ignore you.

When you’re good with yourself, you don’t need to act like a star. You don’t need to be three hours late to prove your worth. You don’t need to hide behind excuses, titles, microphones, status, horoscopes, or “I didn’t have time.”

How long are we going to tolerate this kind of disrespect? From those who are late with calls, with solutions, with everything you need – except when it’s time to explain why nothing can be done today. Or tomorrow. Or ever.

And it all passes without apology, without accountability. Always the same story: “too much work, not enough people.”
And you? You have little patience, lots of obligations, and even more questions – but no one cares. Because from you, of course, it’s expected that you’ll understand, swallow it, and nod along.

What the hell, people – is this a circus without a tent, or a system without shame? A system where you’re just a number, a voice on the line, and a problem that “someone will deal with when they get around to it.”

And numbers don’t applaud. Numbers get erased. Ask the earthworm – it crawled through a math notebook and erased all the numbers that annoyed it while it was just trying to pass through in peace.*

* Maybe you, too, for the sake of peace and your own integrity, could erase at least a little tolerance for disrespect.

Linda Poščić Borovac for Poduzetnik magazine, April 2026.

(the last cry of those weren’t raised right, or an ego with a microphone)

Ah, that famous sentence: “Don’t you know who I am?” The moment it appears in the air, you know what follows isn’t a conversation, but a demonstration of powerlessness at a raised volume. It’s not an introduction – it’s a plea. Not for respect, but compensation for what is chronically missing: character. It isn’t even a question. It’s an announcement. Like a rooster crowing at five in the morning not because dawn is important, but because no one listens to him the rest of the day. The only difference is that a rooster at least has a function in the ecosystem. People who say that sentence aren’t lions. A lion doesn’t go around explaining that it’s a lion. It doesn’t demand to be let ahead in line, doesn’t wave its mane at the counter, and doesn’t threaten “don’t you know who’s on my speed dial?!.” That’s what monkeys do when they lose a banana, geese when they sense panic, and people when they have nothing else with which to confirm their own importance. And we meet them everywhere: at the service counter – because, God forbid they have time to wait; in traffic – because the left lane is the new battlefield of ego; in a café – where the waiter becomes a punching bag because the coffee didn’t arrive in fifty seconds; in the media – because the camera rarely stays neutral toward vanity; in politics – because there “don’t you know who I am?” translates as “vote for me because I know how to shout”… And every time it’s the same expectation: step aside, bow down, acknowledge the hierarchy.

And the problem, let’s be honest, hasn’t been them for a long time. The problem is us. Because we know. We see it. We figure out in the first three seconds that “the wiring is loose.” And instead of saying: “No. I don’t care who you are. I care how you behave.”, we stay quiet, move aside and let it pass. That’s how we give them ground. And ground quickly turns into a stage. In other words, we play the role of obedient sheep. We say “it’s fine.” We let the fool win because we can’t be bothered to argue. And so, little by little, the whole society turns into a herd that neatly parts before the loudest koala*. In the background, then, something more dangerous happens – giving up on the basics. On the idea that a person is built from the inside first. That respect isn’t handed out by function but by behavior. That the janitor and the director deserve the same tone – human. And then you remember (really, that quiet voice inside you, your inner skeptic already choking on empty optimism) that story from the classroom: a little scrap of paper on the floor. The children throw litter, the teacher asks them to pick it up. Normal. Educational. But no – the parents complain. Their children, they say, are not being educated to be “trash collectors.” And with one move we: erase the basic lesson of responsibility, humiliate honest professions, explain to children that there are people of higher and lower rank, and teach them that rights come without obligations and that arrogance passes without consequences. And what do we get then? People tossing trash out of cars, power-brokers with the ego of an American bullfrog, politicians for whom titles are a bone to gnaw on. And an army of people who think the world owes them respect – without ever having shown the bare minimum of decency.

In nature there’s one rule: the loudest is not necessarily the strongest. Often they’re simply the most insecure. A true leader doesn’t yell. True authority doesn’t explain itself. Real strength has no need for an audience. So, the next time someone growls: “Don’t you know who I am?” feel free to remember the truth biologists and psychologists have known for a long time: the one who truly has a place in the world doesn’t need to raise dust to take it. And the one who has to ask who he is – has already exposed himself. Because in society, people aren’t recognized by how loud they are, but by how little they need to shout in order to be human.

*trust me, the koala is mentioned here for a reason—behind that seemingly cute, “plush” face lie many brutal facts

Linda Poščić Borovac for Poduzetnik magazine, May 2026.

(or: ribbon-cutting as an olympic discipline)

Always the same scene. First row syndrome. Reserved as if it were a holy altar. In it, politicians, local strongmen, professional head nodders and chronic scissor-holders. Their faces shine, their smiles tense like a ribbon that – ironically – they will solemnly cut. It’s as if they personally mixed concrete, laid tiles and in the break between two meetings, saved the project. And we applaud. Because, of course, it is logical to applaud the ATM when it throws out our money.

Why them? Why not nurses who had a night shift and then a morning shift, teachers who solve social problems between school hours, garbage aristocrats who save civilizations from their own waste every morning, volunteers who work without fees and without PR, single parents who balance their lives like circus acrobats without a net? Why not them? Because, well, they don’t have the “right profile”. And we all know – without a function, there is no merit. The truth is simple: they carry the society. Like a bee that does all the work without much noise only for the honey to end up being eaten by someone else. The first-rowers primarily carry – the event program and their own ego. The difference is subtle, but measurable in tons.

And now your inner skeptic (fortunately it exists) rolls his eyes and wonders: who decided that the first row belongs to the “important”? Is there such a record somewhere? Was there some kind of meeting where someone stood up and said, “I suggest that those who touch reality the least sit closest to the stage”? And everyone nodded, because – of course – they wanted to sit there too. The truth is less spectacular, but just as absurd: it is not a law, it is not a rule, it is not a tradition born out of respect. It is the inertia of self-promotion. For years, the same people came, sat in the front, took pictures, created the illusion of importance – and then we all collectively decided that it was “normal”. And here we are today: we live a script that no one has written, but everyone follows it as holy scripture.

Because the first row has become a scene, not a recognition. It is not the one who has given the most that sits there, but the one who needs to be seen the most. The logic is simple: if you’re already powerful, you have to look even more powerful. If you are already a public figure, you need to be even more public. And if, God forbid, you’ve actually done something – then you’re probably too busy to even sit down. Just imagine what it would look like if the criterion were reversed. If only the front row was reserved for those who really left a mark. Chaos would ensue – but a good one. People would ask, “Wait, who is this woman?” And the answer would be: “That’s the nurse who saved half the city during the epidemic.” Or: “This is the teacher who changed generations of children.” Or: “This is a man who has been cleaning the streets that everyone else has been dirtying for 30 years.” There would be no famous faces – but there would finally be famous works.

And this is where the problem arises: such a front row is not photogenic for a system that feeds on visibility, not real contribution. Because real contribution is quiet, long-lasting and often inconvenient – it reminds us that value is not in function, but in people. That’s why we’re sticking to the old cliché. It’s easier. There is no need to think, there is no need to question, there is no need to change places.

And perhaps the greatest irony in all of this is: those who would really deserve the first row – most often do not ask for it at all. And that’s exactly why they deserve it. Maybe one day they will get it. When the audience finally starts to look around. And yes, kudos to those events where the organizer makes a small, almost subversive move: dedicate the front row to those who really deserve it. For people – not for protocol. For a trace left behind – not for a title. For those who may not be “important” but are important for what they do. Because when the front row is occupied by those who inspire, and not those who just appear – the space changes. Applause is no longer automatic, but real gratitude., says the bee, buzzes briefly and goes back to work.

Linda Poščić Borovac for Poduzetnik magazine, June 2026.

(or: how the rotary beacon became an argument)

There are those moments in life when you end up on Google and type in “rotary beacon”. And no, that’s not boredom. This is already the slight existential crisis phase. That moment when something kicks you out of your shoes so much that you think: “Wait a minute… Who’s crazy here?”

Because a rotary is not a decoration. It is not a fashion accessory for the roof of a car, it is not a seasonal autumn-winter trend. The rotary is a warning. It’s a sign that something isn’t normal. That someone has a priority that goes beyond all our small, dramatic “late” situations. Especially the blue ones. They don’t flicker on a whim or because someone wanted a sense of importance with their morning coffee. They are reserved for those who come when things get serious: police, ambulance and firefighters. In other words, when they light up, your plan has just been officially downgraded to the “it doesn’t matter anymore” section. Even your annoyance that you’re late — unfortunately, you have to put yourself in reverse for a while and think about life. Because in the same second, somewhere a few meters or kilometers away, someone may not have the luxury of waiting. And that, in an ideal version of reality, would be life’s shortest lesson: when the blue lights come on, you may be wasting a minute — but someone else is trying not to lose everything.

Or*… There is also another type of rotary beacon. Those that do not save lives, but the schedule. Those that do not put out fires, but impatience. Those that don’t come because it’s urgent — but because “someone” is more urgent. And this is exactly where the short story from the famous book “Disaster – Diagnoses from Our Lives” begins. The one that has more pages than the average politician has excuses – and we know that he doesn’t even count them because he never uses them.

Well, in one chapter of that book there is a story about Marko. Not to some mythical Marko, but to a completely ordinary Marko – a man who once stepped on a zebra and thought that he was worth the same as someone with a rotary beacon. In short…”Marko was dangerous. Marko decided to prove that rotary beacons on politicians’ cars are unnecessary. “If everyone can stand in line, so can they,” he said, with that dangerous gleam of reason in his eyes. He began to measure waiting times, count stopped drivers, record arrogance and share statistics as if he lived in a country where real statistics have any weight. And then he made the biggest mistake – he succeeded. He proved, precisely and irrefutably, that rotary beacons are not a question of security, but of status. That they are not there to save lives, but minutes. Other people’s minutes, of course.

The system reacted quickly and efficiently – for the first time. Marko ended up in a psychiatric hospital.  Diagnosis: an isolated case of common sense in a terminally absurd system. The doctor looked at him sympathetically and said, “Mr. Marko, do you really believe that everyone is equal?” Marko nodded. The doctor wrote down and sighed, “A more difficult case.” And so today Marko explains to pigeons in the hospital yard how traffic could function without rotary beacons. Pigeons nod their heads – not because they agree, but because they know that someone can land on your head without warning and shit when they decide and without consequences.”

And somewhere between the diagnosis and Marko is actually the question of all questions. The rotary beacons are not the problem. The problem is when the rotary has ceased to mean “caution, someone needs help”, and has started to mean “get out of the way, someone has the power”. Because sometimes the answer is clear. When an ambulance goes — somewhere, someone’s time is running out. When firefighters go — something is burning that shouldn’t be burning. When the police go — order is threatened. You don’t move because you have to. You’re moving because you understand. But what if there is no understanding, only habit?

*… That “but” in life always comes like thunder in a movie — you know it’s coming, but you flinch a little anyway.

Linda Poščić Borovac for Poduzetnik magazine, July/August 2026.

Dear citizens, entrepreneurs, small business owners and other regular sponsors of the state apparatus:

Have you ever opened an email from a government institution and read: “Dear Sir/Madam, thanks to responsible public finance management, record revenues, and cost rationalization, we have decided to return some of your money, abolish several senseless levies and simplify administration”?

Of course you haven’t. And you never will. That falls into the same category as the appearance of a unicorn. You won’t ever receive a notification that a fee— whose reason for existence is a mystery to everyone—has been abolished. You won’t read that a seventeen-page form is being shortened to two. You won’t be compensated for the dozens of hours lost at service counters, on malfunctioning web portals, navigating procedures devised by people who clearly never had to use their own system.

But imagine the reverse. Imagine that you, as an entrepreneur, send an invoice to the state: for a response that is three months late, for a lost file, for being redirected between offices for the fifth time, for the sentence “That is not within our jurisdiction,” for a meeting that leaves you knowing less than you did beforehand, or for the mental anguish caused by trying to understand official instructions. Of course, you can’t. Because you operate in the market. And they operate on the budget. These are two completely different ecosystems. About as similar as Formula 1 and a bicycle without a chain.

And so, the other day, an email arrived from an organization: “Dear members, we have received a package of proposed tax regulations and invite you to submit your comments…”

Comments. A beautiful word. It’s like the captain of the Titanic asking if you like the seating arrangement while the ship is already sinking. But fine. Let’s look at the “good news,” shall we?

Item one: An increase in social security contributions for flat-rate business owners. Item two: A tax on “excessive profit margins.” The very phrasing makes profit sound like some sort of bacterial infection. You made more money? Too bad. We’ll prescribe a treatment right away.

Item three: Alignment with directives. The absolute winner of bureaucratic Newspeak. You never—and I mean *never*—read: “We are aligning with a directive that leaves citizens with more money.” No. “Alignment” always mysteriously implies a new cost, a new form, a new record-keeping requirement, a new obligation, or a new interpretation of an old obligation that is completely opposite to last year’s interpretation. Sometimes one gets the impression that there is a secret office somewhere whose sole task is to figure out how to further complicate the lives of people who actually work and create things—and then package it all under labels such as “digital transformation” or “process modernization.”

In Croatia, whenever you hear the state is “adjusting” something, you might as well get your wallet ready. Adjustments never go downward. The state shows the same enthusiasm for a lower bill that a cat shows for vegetarianism.

It always concludes with the standard phrase: “Please submit your proposals and comments.” Every time I read that, I feel like a sheep invited to help plan its own shearing: ideas are welcome, comments are noted, but in the end, the shears do what they please. Because when the state needs money, it is the citizens’ responsibility. When citizens need help, it is a matter of procedure. When you are late with a payment, interest charges follow. When the system is years behind schedule, it is simply a “process.”

So, dear taxpayers, do send in your comments. It is important that the system looks like a dialogue

Linda Poščić Borovac for Poduzetnik magazine, September 2026.