Stories about women: no bank for old ladies

Stories and News No. 985

Maria Félix is 116 years old, she is old enough to remember a lot of things, but too much to earn the card needed to receive her welfare every month.
For the record, we are talking about 1,200 pesos, $63, about 58 euros.
"I was told that the limit is 110 years..." Mary said, sitting in the courtyard of her small house in Guadalajara
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Once upon a time there was a bank.
A bank that is the world, if you think about it.
The house that we built and where we went to, believing that it was the best, and above all, possible among the worlds.
Well, being a world, it’s a wide and colorful space, where you can really be everything.
All that matters to a bank, of course.
To figure it out, let's start from the borders.
An inseparable line, like every decisive and respectful wall, in the form of a counter that reveals the mere essential thing on both sides of the common living.
That’s the only granted portion of humanity through the magical portal: the inert half-bust.
If exhaust from despair or frustration, you can only grumble, scream until you lose your breath and weeps in all languages.
Even so, despite the volatility of the currency, distances don’t change.
They never do in such a world.
Because the immutability of distances is the main foundation.
Then, get in a row, hurry up, don’t waste your time, because time is money, but not only that.
If just the money were able to determine the fate of that planet's inhabitants, it would be acceptable.
To prove that there is another axiom of the world called bank: cash is the sand that flows into the hourglass but it is the privileged hand that decides when to rotate it or not.
A disturbing hand, a single, indifferent limb disconnected from the body and all its natural specifics, a set of frozen meat, immobile blood and sharp nails.
A blind and deaf hand, capable only of grasping.
A hand that, by now, no longer has anything human.
However, say the supporters of this living circle, be happy, since you can choose.
You can search for luck and maybe find it: to be on the other side of the sacred edge, being part of the bank, with the ambition of becoming even a finger of the abnormal hand.
Here is the minimum horizon, able to push human processions to the financial altar.
Becoming the others, one of those, one of the lucky ones who have definitively ceased to walk, and like robots with always open eyes, get the illusory river of virtual power to unceasingly flow into the veins of the damned.
There was once a world, then.
A world that we have deceived and brutalized to make it a huge bank.
Where there is no place for those you can call old.
That is, all those who have enough memory to remember when we decided to go in.
And, above all, where the blessed exit is…


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