As a little child I used to listen to many stories about the magic carpet. As every obedient child I believed in them. Sometimes in my dreams I would fly on one such wide colourful woven fabric, while the tassels on its ends were jumping up and diving on a warm south. In reality I was afraid of heights, but riding the magic carpet of my dreams I was turning into a fearless hero of unending blue skies. I desired so strongly to dream of myself up there, and down there… Bicycles like mosquitoes, buildings like mushrooms, autumn tree-crowns like birch-tree besoms, no noise, no cries, no sighs. Only the river releases barely noticeable, muddy notes, as if it was suffocating. Warm noodles smell somewhere, the kind that stick to your palate and burns you to tears. Some lectures are not being taught at school… And at school they taught us how to weave our magic carpet: respect the older, look after and respect your female friends, be honest to your friends, never tell a lie and, God forbid, never steal. Mario and Miodrag and Azra and Martina and Alen and Sladjana and Danica and Sanel and Davor.1 We all inserted our fibres into that magic fabric.
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Now I am not afraid of heights, but I am afraid of the bottom. It has been a while since I dreamt of flying on a magic carpet, and why should I: one does not hear a river from grunts and cries of the mob, nobody rides bicycles any more, mushrooms grows in stead of besoms, while the scent of noodles got lost somewhere in our grandmothers’ kitchens. Never mind, there were a lot of other noodles I got burned on. Respecting the rules imposed on me in school, from heroes of skies I came down to earthly punk. Tempora mutantur. And what happened to our magic carpet? Well, we all stabbed our knives into that magic shit.
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But, even though cut to peaces and worn out, that carpet is still magical. It has to be so, how could one put so many lies, deceptions and other dirt that surrounds us under a common rug? It is put mercilessly, using hands and legs, elbows and knees. Buildings, roads, forests… Anything can fit under that magic carpet. Until once. And when it bursts out, I would like to be far, far away, perhaps somewhere high on the skies, on some other Magic Carpet.
1. Names that would, in the local context, typically imply to the cultural, religious and traditional belonging of those who bear them: – Orthodox, Catholic or Moslem – representing major groups living in BiH.
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