…you and me…
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“Your love of life shall be love of your highest hope; and your highest hope shall be the highest thought of life. Your highest thought, however, you should receive as a command from me: man is something that shall be overcome.”
F. Nietzsche, Así habló Zaratustra
We are networks of illusion.
We consume, offer, create and destroy illusion.
It doesn’t complain, doesn’t wait, it only elevates us.
It’s meaningless and painful by itself, it is helpless and misleading.
It needs an engine to transform reality,
to become music and move forward.
“I’m always thinking about creating.
My future starts when I wake up every morning…
Every day I find something creative to do with my life.”
Miles Davis (May 26, 1926 – September 28, 1991)
“When we quit thinking primarily about ourselves and our own self-preservation,
we undergo a truly heroic transformation of consciousness.”
Without asking where is his destiny, the hero builds it, fight for it and defends it.
He knows his destiny, and as he advances, he is just freeing the way
Violence. Shortages. Anxiety. Traffic. Chaos. Tension. Insecurity. Closure. Disappointment. Kidnapping. Debacle. Consequences. Anarchy. Abuse. Misrule. Power. Exclusion. Wrath. Inequity. Tears. Strike. Frustration.
Some time ago we lost our homeland, today it lies kidnapped.
Once we step forward in unison, we will begin to build it again.
Gold, oil, human capital, labor and culture. Everything vanishes. Everything slides through the hands of the givers, splattering his remains to those who lie expats. A country rose and went flying to every corner of the world. Venezuela is not what they are robbing us, they are stealing us time, time to begin to rebuild it. On occasions I raise my head and look beyond El Avila, hoping that the idea, the hope of a new country, comes back at any time. The idea is dispelled by the struggle between men, because the struggle between men is uneven in nature and has no end. Time is endurance but not submission. Gold, oil, labor, culture and human capital fades day after day with hammer and chisel. The ideas descend gradually to lie on the mountains, the rivers and flood our ravines. We must be the ones who flood the streets and tie the hands of those who call themselves givers. Without gold, oil, education or job, El Avila continue to be expectant and he will watch arise a country that never existed. He’s giving us time. But even time runs out.
“God gives hope to the weak, so that he take the risk to be strong.”
Dedicated to G. M. and my expatriated siblings.
It should not be called patria or nation where people live in fear.
It should not be called patria or nation where life became upheaval.
It should not be called patria or nation where people live under a bifid, disoriented and completely pulverized precept.
We live in an increasingly vicious reality where is no order; there is no real government nor regime of any kind.
Those who stayed here; those who are not plondering the country… We are exptriated already.
Expatriate: transitive verb. 1: banish, exile 2: to withdraw (oneself) from residence in or allegiance to one’s native country
Allegiance: the obligation of a feudal vassal to his liege lord b (1): the fidelity owed by a subject or citizen to a sovereign or government. (2): the obligation of an alien to the government under which the alien resides
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I did not hear anything. I saw drop after drop hit her hand soundlessly.
She closed her eyers and sharpened her senses. In the distance sensed something.
Other drops fell on her. She opened her eyes and was surprised to see that she became liquid.
Her transparent hands waited in silence. She closed her eyes.
An instrument sounded and she forgot it immediately. Saw her body and remembered flesh and bones.
The water ran over her. On her skin, veins, on her ears, on her being. She closed her eyes one last time.
She felt shine. The sun was born.
Then she heard silence.
And she began to drip.