Count the present days until today arrives (ME IN 2016)

 

There were indeed a very large number of currents active in my brain that held no interest for others. "Thank God," I thought, "At least they left me that much (!)." Through those currents, I was able to detach myself from people and return alone, often stumbling, to my mountain of rubble outside the zone of human identification. It was there that I gave a tasteful air to truly hideous pieces, which I called "wadis." There they were: small precipices created by the continuous erosion of my concerns. The market would be more cautious in the face of external risk; the American debate would remain a matter of concern in emerging economies; but my vanity, now, was duly flattered by Fay, and to top it all off, I was sitting before a plate of lobster Thermidor. "Now, someone else," I thought. A film about crossing social boundaries played in my mind as I searched for the perfect, emotionless balance in which to rest my spirit. I wondered what "Equality" was. "That all men are brothers (?)". No. "Equality meant that everyone was part of an elite. Napoleon and Stalin, for example. For those who, probably, the great prize of power consisted in the unlimited possibility of killing with tranquil pleasure, in an overwhelming joy of consuming the panting breath of men in the shadows, swallowing their faces like Saturn and flooding the world with blood and horror (.)''. Equality. Not an ounce of uncertainty within me, for whom, on the contrary, Equality consisted in the unlimited possibility of acknowledging my mistakes, humbly rising up, and moving on to the next mistake; someone for whom there seemed to be no eternity enough to drag themselves through such experimentalism, wallowing in a solicitous mortality. But for the middle segment of society (let's be honest: almost all of it) there has always been envy and adoration before the power to kill with impunity. This is a barely confessable feeling that dwells in the filthy cellars of the human unconscious, there where a herd of sociologists love to talk about it in academic articles that no one reads. They love to historically circumscribe, with footnotes, the case of the Nietzschean Superman testing the most intimate fibers of his heart before a court that is exasperated by his actions, and who will soon reappear in Hollywood films transformed into some kind of postmodern hero full of dilemmas that make you sigh. The Knight of Faith capable of chopping off heads on the altar of God. How many versions of this exist in popular culture! But if you find yourself on a narrow bed, like me, and on top of that covered with newspaper clippings, leaving you just enough width to receive him motionless, the fact is that no matter how much you turn onto your back, and then onto your stomach, and so on, your head will always remain in the same place. I say: unless you bend over... and I certainly take the trouble to do so, especially when I consider that the middle class has never been able to achieve an independent standard of honor. It has never achieved an independent standard of Head; and thus, consequently, it has never been able to resist the unconscious "glamour" of the head-chopping aristocrats. Today, they have to content themselves with one or two car changes a year and bank movements that give them a vague feeling that perhaps they are not mere animals. Having failed to create a spiritual life of their own, their brains have historically become this darkened, resentment-soaked mass that is all they have left of the air and sky. They dedicated themselves to an empty material expansion and met with disaster. This is a curious observation that could lend itself to fertile developments.