Feliks Karić
Bio
50+, still refusing to grow up. I write daily, record music no one listens to, and loiter on film sets. I cook & train like a pro, yet my belly remains a loyal fan. Seen a lot, learned little, just a kid with older knees and no plan.
Stories (17)
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High Net Worth, Low Self- Estem
The Glitter of Wealth and the Poverty of the Insatiable Ego In a world where attention is the new global currency, Gianluca Vacchi is the guy who decided to print so much of his own money that he triggered a hyperinflation of nonsense. We all know him. The Italian heir, a man who looks like someone took a classical Roman sculpture and covered it in graffiti from the most expensive tattoo parlor in Milan. He first burst into our collective consciousness over a decade ago, dancing on the deck of a yacht in a pair of tiny trunks, with a significantly younger beauty serving as a scenic backdrop.
By Feliks Karićabout 4 hours ago in Critique
Confession of a Filmmaker
I am sitting in the dark of my own home, trapped between two glowing monuments. To my left, the cool light of my workstation—where I process reviews, answer emails, and earn my living. To my right, another monitor, flickering with the latest offering from a streaming giant. My head has learned a precise gymnastics; I call it the "Geometry of Attention." It's a calculated dance that allows me to track a dialogue-heavy drama on one screen while editing on the other.
By Feliks Karić5 days ago in Critique
Tried to Love "The Secret Agent" (2025)- But it Almost Broke Me
I wanted to love it. I really did. I sat down with the lights dimmed, ready to be transported to 1970s Recife, ready for the "slow-burn" brilliance that everyone from Cannes to the Oscars had been whispering about. But two hours in, something happened that rarely happens to me as a cinephile: I felt a heavy, physical exhaustion. I had to hit pause. I had to walk away.
By Feliks Karić16 days ago in Critique
The Silk and the Shrapnel
History is a lazy and superficial artist. It loves straight lines, clear-cut motives, and people who fit neatly into the boxes someone else marked with a thick Sharpie a long time ago. In those boxes, a warrior is a stone-carved archetype: someone who smells of cheap tobacco, wears a low-slung baseball cap, and hasn't taken off a faded camo jacket in the decades since the last howitzers went silent in the distance. There is this unspoken, almost religious dictate that trauma must be visible, abrasive, and unkempt. If you don’t look broken on the outside, the world doesn’t believe you’ve ever seen the abyss on the inside. Society demands that your sacrifice be displayed like an exhibit in a museum of defeat, rather than your triumph in the form of elegance.
By Feliks Karićabout a month ago in Fiction
The 30 Percent Armor
My bathroom is a minefield I know by heart. Every tile under my bare feet has its own temperature, every bottle on the shelf its own weight and texture. This is my sanctuary, my little staging ground for practicing “normal” before I step out and put on the mask I’ve spent years carving. This morning is particularly rough. The fog in my left eye—the one that checked out years ago, a late-coming bill from a war injury that finally came due—has started bleeding into the right. A recent ablation did its job, but it left the world looking like a water-damaged oil painting. I see about thirty percent of reality. The other seventy? I fill that in with memory, gut instinct, and pure, raw spite.
By Feliks Karićabout a month ago in Fiction
The Weight of a Touch: Why My best Training Equipment Isn't made of Iron
The Weight of a Touch: Why My Best Training Equipment Isn't Made of Iron The air in a commercial gym is thick with more than just the smell of rubber mats and recycled oxygen. If you stop moving for a second and just observe, you’ll feel it—a heavy, invisible fog of human ambition, deep-seated anxiety, and the restless energy of people trying to outrun their own shadows. Most personal trainers see this environment as a simple workspace where calories are burned and muscles are built. But for me, the gym floor is a sanctuary where two souls meet in a very raw, vulnerable state. And because of what I’ve survived, I refuse to walk onto that floor without a very specific kind of protection.
By Feliks Karićabout a month ago in Longevity
Why I'm Using Secret Military Survival Rituals to Fix Burned-Out CEO's
The Frequency of Survival: Why I Don’t Care About Your Squat PR I’m an anti-talent for business. Let’s just start there. I don’t have a marketing funnel, my Instagram is a disaster, and for years, my "price list" was basically whatever my gut told me was right in the moment. If you’d told me thirty years ago, while I was clutching a rifle in a frozen Croatian trench, that I’d spend my fifties gently rubbing the forehead of some high-powered executive who’s on the verge of tears from exhaustion. I’d have thought you were shell-shocked.
By Feliks Karić2 months ago in Viva
The Scent of Empathy: What the Front Lines Taught Me About you Workout
The Battlefield You Don’t See You’d think that after being a member of the 1st Guards Brigade "Tigers" during the Croatian War of Independence, I’d be the kind of trainer who screams in your face until you puke. You’d expect a drill sergeant in camo pants, barking about "no pain, no gain" and "weakness leaving the body."
By Feliks Karić2 months ago in Longevity
The No-Exercise Cholesterol Hack: How I Ate My Way Out of a Medical Mess
I’ve spent most of my life as an athlete and a soldier, which means I’m used to treating my body like a machine. In that world, you don’t ask how the engine feels; you just put the fuel in and demand results. But hit fifty, throw in a few major surgeries, and suddenly that machine starts looking more like a rusty tractor.
By Feliks Karić2 months ago in Longevity
My Synth and My Friend, DJ Bruno
Why I’m not a musician, I’m just a guy trying to stay sane in a loud world I have a friend named Bruno. He’s an old sea wolf of the DJ world—the kind of guy who lived through the golden era of Italian House music when everything felt like a warm hug.
By Feliks Karić2 months ago in Confessions
