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.

(WITH 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.

(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.