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On an ordinary nameless day, wheels rule the streets with impunity. They smoke and roar anger, their contempt of unfeasible equality inscribed on the softened asphalt of a summer capital.
A carnival is an occasion for the hesitant populace with average pains, those swallowed by routine and loneliness to get out and feel the sun. A timely excuse for something they should be doing anyway.
The weight of hot air in their lungs, the Foot army united under a ‘change pace, not place’ invisible flag, executed their size. Support from a brigade of fun seeking marines freshly disembarked from cruise ships, sealed the victory.
The story of liberation was written on each of the smiling faces. Like in an unusual dream, a fiesta of lights closed the triumphant night of a thousand cheers.
This frame will enlighten you of the mood in the city, epitomized by the presence of a wall facing street sign, the disgraced official just adequate for keeping the balloons in place. Did not stop anything or anyone, not on a day like this.
Also by Peter Kurdulija
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