The feeling produced by hiding behind an argument, new, created from my own fears, is unmatched. It turns the frank melancholy into a homogeneous recycled material capable of nurturing the ego and taking me away from suffering for a moment. Guaranteeing a respite of tranquility to the thinker that I carry, who sacrifices sleep and sometimes bulimic, without even eating a bite, is the written word, their only food. Such is, my excessive torment, that surely, for ordinary people it would be impossible to understand the emanation of my womb, being able to qualify it as the complicated product of a diaphanous mind, accustomed to self-mutilation.
But that! Is not entirely true. My spirit has never reached such a degree of poverty and chaos, on the contrary, it is enormous, a component that is responsible for treating my thinking with such subtlety in a fallacious attempt to rescue me. I could go so far as to say that it is just the way to project and straighten my course. I constantly renew the sublime neuron of the imaginary, forcing it to wake up. And so, take out what I write, which is not, if not more, what I carry inside... The need to fill the spaces of the mind with new information is what makes me a continuous writer, in the face of rhetoric, accepting it as an invaluable opportunity to grow. It is to respond to the abstract of a world that seldom pleases me, being more, its adjudicated attempts to make me feel drowned and without exit. I was scrupulously observing the life, the clothing of lis, which once covered the path where I took my steps, had disappeared. For an interminable moment, I had the impression that everything withered around me, was collected and served, put for me, on a plate on the table, with utter villainy. I put my prejudice aside and made the hostile decision to change the scene, leaving, little by little, the humility of the oak chair and table. I went in search of the sinful ruse, in a new installment, where it was the jungle, who welcomed me and entrusting me, I to her secret, it would let me go through its labyrinths and thus return with the necessary elements for my review.
The people seemed to be in agreement with society, they were charlatans, excessively treacherous, keeping the polite gesture to themselves and noting an unreasonable euphoria. Although perhaps, deep down they concealed their reality, even so, excessive, crude, they were a feast of meat, consuming each other, in the incessant exchange of microbes.
They looked abundant in boastfulness, owners of all reason, as if nothing affected them, not even the worst of crises. Blind like the blind effigy of justice, with the "S" that dominates the world ($), tilting the lyre chamber towards whims and cruel whims.
But mine! It was bad life, a melancholic writer prostrate on the railing of the metro, horrified, panicked, located right next to a beggar. Leaning my notebook on the plexiglass can used as a trash can. I looked at the asymmetry of social gender wreaking havoc on those people, they were all going nowhere, with that common rush, that rush of unease which I know. Semblance of those who are masters of appearances and in their fleeting walk, in reality they were not walking... they were, fleeing... fleeing from themselves, fleeing from the mass.
I heard, in my few decades of life, abominable tales, stories of cruelty where some beings fell lying on the pavement, dominated by hysteria in an apparent cataleptic state. Others with heart attacks, victims of the pale. Strange sudden deaths from low insulin, commas, suffocation, strokes. People who stood on a corner, just looking at the back page of the newspaper, then entered shock, collapsed without any vital sign. People, stuck where they should not and among the mysteries of society, made the last journey through the streets, without knowing that they would never return. Some often call it modern stress, collective trauma, city man psychosis, the disease of the future. I have reserved a name, moreover, copious, to the hidden apartheid where the indomitable punishment resides: The mass. Dark mask, which covers the face of lost cities without an owner, where you are silenced, and your silence is submissive until, like Titan, you manage to come out of its entanglement alive. However, despite how fateful its detriment is, even so, I have come here, for that! The mass, I think about nourishing myself on its ignoble behavior and drawing experience from its spectrum. They were all the mass, the masses collide, converge, suffer..., star in the worst episodes, the masses carry life, communicate, transfer fresh information... the masses have everything and nothing, it is a lot already the little time, the dough is fear and joy, the dough is cowardly... The dough is raw material... Fantastic and amazing...
Raw material, which I wanted to take off the shelf and use it to my advantage to add to the chapters of my new argument. He had what I was looking for, also what I hated, his grating echo in my ears causing him anguish. Thus arose the uncontrollable appetite, the desire to know was born, but, I had to ask her in person, I had a sick desire to hear her, to listen to the mass speak...
I wanted to hear his damned resounding voice, the same one that imprisoned me between the bars of the subway, leaving me frozen in a corner with the stray dogs, who were, after all, the best company I had ever encountered. Somewhat faithful, honeyed, hungry... We had so much in common, hunger, we were there for the same reason... carrion. I tried to remember where I could have failed, where I made that mistake whose gravity was transferred to me in a brutal guilt. As one who, humiliating royalty, not even kneeling before all humanity, obtained forgiveness. "I could not say, of what degree was the conception of my world. But that's how it was for me, it had a double face. The mass, that's how I saw it, that's how it caused horror to my mind, it made me suffer from problems since I was a child."
I was another, victim of the system, for a moment, I had an existential crisis, a crisis of intellect, I felt that the very philosopher's stone was in front of me hitting me and mistreating me, casting a hook to catch me, like one of my venerated friends too victims of his poison, I mean, with great honor, like a dog!... And I was discovering the mass, my writing became toxic, I saw her dressed in all her outfits with her control psychology, vague of her concept. And I was afraid to offer my argument, and my discontent was my greatest expression of sincerity, and I did not dare to touch the notebook... Because the mass also had eyes and did not allow me freedom of thought... Since I have known myself, I have been the analyst, attentive to the most minute detail that reality can give off. There I was, seeing everything my way, watching the mass catch the ambrosia of the world and its naivety. But, now I did not find such an effect, to tell the truth, I did not find anything that could fill my emptiness, so I decided for a moment, delve into the thoughts of the people around me and know their pretense. Not with the aim of sneaking around in its decoration of ambiguities and its common way of seeing things; not to try to decipher their privacy or to guess their most corrupt desires... No! That was not my purpose. I just wanted to take a sample of what they internalized and thus be able, at least, to know, or even approach, what they felt in their hearts...
"I remember that some time ago after reading a famous decalogue of the writer, I discovered among his recommendations, that of promoting synthesis and summary as an attribute of the argument. Something that said in other words, left the freedom to interpret, that the simplest texts and easily assimilated by the reader's mind were closer to achieving literary success, therefore, they were recommended."
Not being completely convinced, with that statement, for the moment, having dusted off the knowledge acquired in the past tense, even with certain doubts, I decided, for the first time, to put it into practice.
"It was thus that I was accustomed to creating texts like a hemorrhage and not letting my hand contain, for any reason, the anguished mental verbiage that characterizes me, anguished by the fact of writing, anguished by the fact of not leaving empty spaces, nor Orphan lines, or fatuous lines where a single sound could fit, the product of disdain or ease, those lines that can lead to the failure of a writer because they are considered low effort. I would never undertake such an adventure, I would never navigate the superfluous poem..."
My anguish was to know that writing for a human is finite and my outlet an inconsistent and scattered trivial of knowledge...
Now, I decided to write a simple and empty prose, as I would never have tried before, capable of impacting on the mass and that in their collective memory they could understand what my disconsolate thinking was. In that way, I would feel like giving them back a little of what they offered me, Simplicity, in that way, when I received a feedback detached from the group, my restlessness to know, if I was the only being on the face of the victim earth would be satisfied of social distress. They were the first emblematic minutes, I went to take a seat on the floor, holding my pen with the slightly uncomfortable arch of my wrist, because my leg served as support and despite having supported my back on the ceramic wall, even so, my skeleton did not have consistency.
“If the dogs run free, because I don't...", I remembered that famous phrase of the teacher Zimmerman, I wondered, if one day with his harmonica and his banjo, Bob Dylan would have reached the lowest strata of the society, like the one in which I now found myself... I'm sure it did!
The dogs immediately surrounded me, then came closer, perhaps assuming I was going to offer them food. With my eyes flush with theirs, outlining the forced smile of a man who never smiles, I gave them to understand that I had nothing but my pen and my notebook. Even so, one of them approached, and taking me carelessly, licked me. That snout close to my face was for me a gesture of insurmountable consolation, since his intention was pious and disinterested.
After an hour, the subway cars would make their last trip in the afternoon, as the night service was suspended. Now, the mass was running desperately ready to destroy everything in its path. They looked like released prisoners jumping from one prison to another, they spoke with shouts, they tried to agree their position in line, not being willing, under any reason, to be left without a seat or with some other decent position in the car cabin.
And I saw them step on their own heads, put an end to the little cordiality that they had left and impatient to enter the subway, disappearing, like oil in a funnel, as if swallowed by the eye of a hurricane, precipitated in the endless of a black hole, as if they were pulling a latrine chain... I was meditating on that, for a long time, and for a moment I felt peace in my soul. Now I was in the jungle, but without animals, even the dogs had disappeared as who knows that along with the mass their possibility of food also left, leaving the desert corridor immersed in the most sordid silence... Time slipped away Suddenly, four hours I was in that position, doing nothing, just watching the beating of the abominable mass.
I just had to lean on the garbage drum, to finally stand up and stretch my body to get out of that state, which for hours, was perplexed and vegetative. I realized that I had written absolutely nothing of the short speech that I had originally proposed. Finally, under the intermittent subway lamps and the halo of loneliness, of which I was the only witness. I chose to write a short note (*), leave my pen and notebook on the lid of the garbage can, and then leave the place.
I understood that there was no point in my attempt to write something reasonable, against the mass you cannot fight. It was rather, that, a moral annihilation, a lost time left for the sake of a bloody society. I concluded that, contrary to what I had originally thought, society is not a poetisa giver of the broad inspirational meaning, it is more of the same, the automaton without identity.
“You cannot write to the masses, because the masses do not listen, you will never make yourself known to them, because being blind, they will not see you... Do not rejoice or run behind, they go where the flock goes and their destination is, moreover, uncertain...
I continued on my way, melancholy, hungry, under the intermittent streetlights, eager, to sit in my armchair and my oak table, the only place where I could find shelter.
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