Stories and News No. 713
The recent fact of the pilot burned alive and subsequent hanging of prisoners by Jordanian government makes me want to be anything else.
Everything but a human.
And from there, listen to the story, watching the scene, observing the drama.
As a mere spectator.
Right now I am the oxygen.
Burning with the man.
But not dying, because I was not even alive before.
You can exist without living.
Without suffering for a valid reason.
Or for unacceptable stupidity.
I am the rope that tightens and steals breath.
I am also new oxygen, this time imprisoned outside the thirsty lips.
I am the prisons bars, on every part of the sides, fair effective, fair compassionate.
Fair incredulous, more than anything else.
I am the words sparingly scattered on the never quieted wounds, cooked to perfection by the not be suspected chefs.
Unnamed suspects as these words they are screamed, raped and manipulated.
Of Religion and oil, of power and gods, of unquestionable crusades and imaginary plots.
Words to the wind, blown in the hearts of many by the ultimate creator.
As if at the end of all, before the night equal to everybody, there really was someone able to read between the darkness before the others.
So I turn.
From the meaningless words I become their true sound, or noise.
From noise to echo.
From the memory of the latter I am the traces in the soul of the shining victim.
Killed and murderer.
Cursed and hated.
Enemy and friend, so he was once.
As long as the opposite has not passed in the listing of the very important bag.
Finally I am that bag.
Where the keys are.
And so the remote control.
The deceptive flute and its haunting melodies.
That a group of stupid mice is following until the inevitable precipice.
They are us.
Here I think how pitiful is that the inert world watching us destroy ourselves have not received the talent of speech.
Why can’t we start over and redistribute the sacred gifts of Mother Nature?
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