Friday, February 27, 2015

Matteo Salvini protest in Rome: official speech video

Stories and News No. 724

Once upon a time there was a town.
Many fell to the town coming from north to south, since its founding.
Ab Urbe condita, using an easier expression for healthy memory persons and not for the others.
All affirming to have the right answer.
Which people needed the most.
Just one answer, without vain syntactic and semantic harpings.
You know, people have a lot of unresolved questions.
When someone comes to simplify they see him as god on earth.
The word becomes flesh.
What animal or carcass was it does not count.
So the day when Matteo Salvini had come to the town arrived.
No, not him, another Matteo Salvini.
Beautiful and tall, so we do not get confused.
Here I just tell a story, I can make some joke, people’s lives do not depend on it.
Matteo was a few moments from his long-awaited debut.
He was closed in the camper and was rehearsing the speech he should tell in front of the crowded square.
In that time someone knocked at the door.
"Bad news, Matteo, immigrants are all gone."
"Right now? Why? "
"Because they are tired of taking ever the blame for everything, so they said."
Matteo was forced to revise the speech.
He was trying to remedy when somebody knocked again.
"Matteo, Roma are all gone, the gipsy camps are empty."
"What is this, a conspiracy?"
"No, a Roma scientist has discovered a habitable planet, with water and food, and said that only those who lived in the camps may go."
Matteo restarted to change the speech, and I guess it is now clear, it means to cut it.
A few moments and yet another double knock sounded.
"What?!"
"Other bad news: there are no longer homosexuals around."
"Lesbians?"
"All gone."
"What have I done wrong? Why they are gone?"
"Because making feel them as different they have really become. The have gills, now, and live under the sea, loving as they like. Some redfish protested, but nothing more."
He had not even finished to delete entire paragraphs from the speech when someone knocked for the fourth time.
In short, other enemies were gone, including Muslims, atheists and the old women without dentures, that Matteo had never been able to suffer because of a childhood trauma that we have not the time to explain.
He cut, cut again and with tears in his eyes watched what was left of the paper.
That is, just that: a paper
Good to clean his... okay, let’s not be rude, we're almost done.
"Boss," somebody shouted outside, "we are waiting for you on the stage."
Matteo went before the mirror to find inspiration, as Robert De Niro in Taxi Driver, Bob forgive me, and observing his own face reflected remembered the real reason which the foaming horde awaited him for.
He freed eyes from vile tears, opened the door of the camper and once on the stage, before his people, did the only thing he really knew.
He shouted, Matteo loudly barked with anger and resentment for an entire hour.
All shouted back, cheered and lived forever deluded to rejoice.

Watch the video:





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Thursday, February 26, 2015

Couple buy child for 30,000 euros: the value you give

Stories and News No. 723

It has happened in Messina, Sicily (Italy).
Not in exotic lands of third world.
A couple paid € 30,000 to buy an eight years old Romanian child.
The transaction would have been successful without the intervention of the police.
I wonder, would it have been a good deal?
What is the market price of a child?

I enlarge my eyes.
I expand the frame to the utmost.
Up to put at risk my imagination’s boundaries.
Because you need a particular abstraction to visualize such a store.
Cautiously I come in.
I walk and I see them.
I try to watch them
A shelf, like many others.
That like burns there, where what I strenuously defend inside me resists.
I hope to still have it today and every tomorrow will follow.
They are there, a lot of them.
Wrapped with care, but also packed in a hurry.
Enfolded in shiny paper, but also locked up in anonymous bags.
There are three for the price of two.
And there are family size.
There are even in a light version.
Sugar-free and free of that you wish.
Especially without thinking too much.
Without tears, nobody like them.
I walk to one of them.
Maybe because he is the only one who seems to look at me.
A kind of product that stands out for absences, rather than opulence, commercial paradox I would call unique.
He is apparently free among the prisoners.
With no deception of paper and color, lies and illusions.
I am just a step.
My voice trembles, but I shut it.
Don’t you dare, I whisper myself, keep quite any weakness that could only offend those crushed souls.
"Tell me," I ask the different child, not seeing any label, "what is your price? Is it perhaps thirty thousand euro?"
"So much?" He replies. "Let's see," he continues, "hands and arms at least ten thousand euro per pair. Arms embrace the hands take, fingertips read the world and fingers free the nose from unwanted presences, which never hurts. Legs and feet ten thousand more. I will walk, run, especially consuming socks and shoes, so someone else makes even more money about it. Five thousand euro for the upper body, and I want to spoil, look: I pretend not to know that inside there are the famous storyteller and his unknown Ghost Writer, respectively, heart and belly. Stop avarice, for the remaining five thousand euro I will give you my head. Given the age, how much memory will bloats the brain? So, that's it: thirty thousand euro."
"But is it all here, what you are?" I ask as if I desperately waited for a negative answer.
"I don’t know," he murmured, "none of us knows. We are the gifts you write the price. Thirty thousand, but also ten thousand, a euro, if you prefer. But if you think I am worth more than what you see, what are you doing here?"
I walk away, saying hi I walk away.
I go out and take what I imagined possible in my hands.
I hold it, squeezing it with envy.
I break it in pieces.
Hoping that with the dream.
The nightmare too will disappear.



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Wednesday, February 25, 2015

Diversity Stories: Us and Them

Stories and News No. 722

"Italy has wasted the opportunity to give the EU a different address, based on respect for human rights, fight against discrimination, and in particular on policies on immigration issue that gave priority to saving lives."
These words are from the general director of Amnesty, accompanying the publication of the usual annual report about human rights.
This year is even more tragic than the last.
That is the usual problem of us.
And them...

Once upon a time there was the land of us.
The land of us was inhabited by people whose names were easy to pronounce.
Me, you, myself, me again, always you, me too, what about you?, and so on.
Outside there were them.
Their names were not easy to pronounce.
According to us, obviously.
He, she, the others, all the other ones, that guy, that girl, these guys, go away and come back to your land, etc.
Now, I have to say that many of us were not nice with them.
The reasons are many and I will not narrate here.
A single story would not be enough to change things.
Even if written in easy words.
Clear and direct.
Reading in a few minutes.
Otherwise, all those who could read would find sufficient air in the brain to allow the heart to enter.
And breath.
I will focus only on one.
You have to know that people in the land of us were afraid that them could steal something.
Anything, even the most unlikely, such as the future.
That is, what does not yet exist.
However, due to the suggestion of some delusional idiot, many were convinced that the best way to prevent them from robbing us were depriving ourselves the best we had.
As if a flower would give its pollen away to prevent the bees to collect it.
As if the earth itself could ruin its fruits against the living creatures.
As if the whole dance was reduced to giving and taking, ignoring the natural next step: giving back what has been taken.
So it happened to all, in the kingdom of us.
There were those who lost love and imagination, sense of humor and understanding.
There were those who gave up to have a word and even those who forgot of being able to listen others word.
There was even someone who eliminated from his life the way that takes on another way.
Can you imagine what pain in the ass seeing just one horizon till the death is?
Everybody severed personal part the most worthy to exist, but the majority agreed to loose incalculable gifts from the past.
Privileges wrapped at the price of dreams and blood, for love of us in the future.
The human rights.
It was the deprivation that better worked.
At least once.
Stop with the right to food and the right to protect from rain and cold, stop with the right to care and the right to hospitality.
In short, stop to the right to exist and it became easier.
Indeed, more than easy, it became natural.
Ignoring, raping, torturing, discriminating, sacrificing.
Them.
However, the problem is that forcibly removing everything many of us were not able to remember what to be me was like.
So, many became convinced that the meaning of me were us.
And all the others became ignorable, expendable, discriminated, etc.
Because all the others that were not me had become them.

Read other stories about diversity.


Watch the video:





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Friday, February 20, 2015

Rome threat is next: the two tribes

Stories and News No. 721

While most of Italy debates and anguish before the feared hashtag #We_Are_Coming_O_Rome, in the world that remains life continues.
Most often must, otherwise the fridge remains empty.
This paradoxical composition of existences moves my imagination to the following story...

Once upon a time there was an island.
On the island there were two tribes.
The two tribes were different.
There is little to add.
Being different, they lived in a dissimilar way.
One had chosen the highest point of the island.
The top of the mountain.
And not for the sake of the good air.
The above inhabitants did not choose high places in obedience to the passion for something, but the fear of it.
And where is terror to influence your heart’s beating, rather than the interest in something new, there is no space to relax.
Hard to do, when you spend most of the time both eyes fixed on the horizon.
Awaiting the inevitable arrival of him.
The frightening enemy invader.
On the contrary, the other tribe lived below.
Even here, there is no much to be adduced.
In particular, the inhabitants had settled on the beach.
Worshipers of the sea in all its manifestations, they prayed the god of the waves, but not like we do it in our country.
For example, asking something or waiting for presents.
Cursing him for unsatisfied supplication.
Or claiming him to ban anything to anyone.
People below prayed the sea driven by a single sentiment, gratitude, and for one only reason, synthesized in a ritual phrase: thanks for the waves.
Not because they were experienced surfers.
They had also tried, but were unable.
Also here, nothing to highlight.
They thanked the waves because that was exactly how they saw themselves.
Going and coming people, no difference between the two things, just like the sea’s dance driven by the wind to die on the shore.
As a moment later to resurrect.
Without any need for miracles.
It came a day when the tribe above chief asked to meet with people below leader, and with all his companions went down to the valley.
“Listen”, he said nervous, “you and your peers are irresponsible. You have not raised barriers, neither made weapons and have not trained armies. The barbarians will come from the sea and will kill you all. “
“How do you know that?” the other asked.
“How do I know? It is written everywhere. We read in the stars, we pulled the shells on air and read the combination, we listened to the hoopoe, we sacrificed six goats and drank the blood, the shaman agrees too. Also the paper we found in the bottle says if I’ll take you I'll kill you. “
“That was my son. He was angry with the weevers because they stung him... “
“Well... I agree, but the rest is still true.”
The below tribe’s chief wanted to try to be polite and tried to leverage on his own apprehension.
So, for pure empathy, he pretended to be concern and pry.
“Tell me, please: how do these barbarians look like?”
“They are tall and hairy, they are uncivilized and have no respect for our culture and our traditions, they destroy everything and go away unpunished.”
“Dad...” the chief's son said in that moment, having heard everything, word by word.
“Dear, don’t you see I'm talking?”
“Yes, but I wanted to tell you that he's right.”
Everyone followed the right index finger of the child up to the mountain of the tribe above, whose houses were burning.
The hairy and uncivilized invaders really arrived.
They were called the Dutch.



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Thursday, February 19, 2015

Sacchi racist without his knowledge

Stories and News No. 720

After his recent statements on the excessive presence of black players in Italian youth football teams, Arrigo Sacchi and almost all his supporters deny the charges of racism saying that the coach was referring to foreign players.
So, it was 'just' the proud defense of Italic identity and dignity.
I think this is a disease very widespread in Italy, even where you least expect it.
Often, the worst racist is who does not know to be...

There are them.
And they are many.
There are those who seeing a black man immediately would image him praying Muhammad.
Before any other god.
Atheist is excluded.

And there are those who meeting a black woman would first have to ask where she came from.
Since when she lives here, how her country is and so on questioning.
Even before knowing her name.
Let alone her dreams.

There are those who encountering a black guy would assume he could not speak their language.
At the risk of getting someone very familiar with that language, very better than them too.

And there are those who watching a black woman the first shape would think of would be the one that draws Africa.
That is a work of superfine magic, no jokes.
Clearing in a fraction of a second four continents is not easy.
And at the same time, if she would have been really from Africa, reducing millions of people in the space of a word.
That is, a single face, as much as dark.

There are those that knowing of the arrival of a black man would not doubt that he could get something.
Never give.
Let alone neither.
Read it as well as the simple being of travelling humans.

And finally there are those who looking at black people would give for granted they were foreigners.

Fortunately, there are also those who think that black people could be anything and its contrary.
Especially not having the faintest idea of what lives under their skin.

All others, they admit it or not, are the racists.



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Wednesday, February 18, 2015

Moral stories about school: where we learn

Stories and News No. 719

It happened, it is not something new, that the ceiling of a school lose pieces.
This time we speak about a school in Pescara, Italy, where two young students have been wounded.
Nevertheless, as the show, the lessons must go on...

Once upon a time there was a country.
I do not say which one.
Let’s remain vague, or presumed, that is the best way.
In this country there was a school.
In the school there was a class.
In the class there was the usual stuff.
Teacher and students, desks and chairs, blackboard, chalk and eraser.
In short, all according to the script.
So far.
We soon take back the obvious, so the most impatient readers do not flee before starting.
The count of the wonders.
In the class of the school in the unnamed country lessons were not easy.
Not because the teacher was unable.
Look, imagine the educator of the year, so to speak.
Not because the students were suffering from acute bullying or worse.
Listen, let’s make it easy: take a handful of perfect disciples and manage them at desks in any order.
Despite this idyllic painting, the nourishment of mind and spirit was ever put at risk.
From the world outside.
So the day when the right wall collapsed came.
You know it, yes? That one on the corridor, with coats and umbrellas.
Bad noise and everything down.
However, we had spoken of wonders, isn’t it?
Well, the teacher and her crew did not give up and indomitably continued the way to the wise horizon.
The following day the left wall went down, along with the windows.
Read them as well as the valuable escape routes for the distractible fantasies.
Who has perpetually lived brought back to the attention by the teacher, reporting among other things a chronic stiff neck, know what I mean.
However, although the noise was even more terrible than the first collapse, the students continued to play the notes suggested by their director.
The third day the wall behind the inhabitants of the last file crumbled.
Some of you might question how the ceiling could resist on the last remained wall.
But I have already said that obvious would have finished at the beginning, right?
So, absurdity for absurdity, the day when the last wall crumbled arrived.
A hard blow for a special teacher too, this is no doubt. The blackboard could often be your best ally, where words and textbooks fail.
Anyway, an exchange of glances between the many and the one was enough to not desist from the only reason to be together.
Where we look forward, according to the dreamers.
On the fifth day, as the title, the ceiling collapsed.
I mean, can you imagine the situation?
Imagine it, gosh: helpless before rain and wind, cold and even gifts by shitting volatiles, the brave teacher and her fearless apprentices stayed still.
Where we grow up, if you know what I mean.
The sixth day arrived on time after the fifth and even the floor abandoned our protagonists.
Here they are, let’s watch them.
Young creatures abandoned in a vacuum without a parachute, hung on courage and love of a super hero with only one super power: teaching.
Look, because beyond any wonders, things are exactly like that.
Where we learn.

Read other stories with morals.






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Friday, February 13, 2015

Dead infant in Italy: who are you?

Stories and News No. 718

In Italy a newborn baby girl died on ambulance because of a respiratory crisis, on the way to the hospital.
Apparently, in her town’s clinics there were no place for her.
This happened in Catania, Sicily.
This is her short history...

My name is Nicole and I was just born.
Here, now.
Let's say a little while ago.
Very little.
I know nothing about you.
I have no idea what I would find.
I do not know what the word life means to you.
To be born.
Freeing eyes and breathe.
Not necessarily in that order.
But, what does order count?
How important will it be since the time you are living is the first one?
I was born and that matters to me.
To my mother and dad.
But you, I do not know you.
I did not know who I would have found out there.
Barely I realized that the other voice was my father.
But, now, what is the relevance of things imagined there?
When you see the light you've only dreamed of, you are open to everything and everyone.
You are willing to trust.
Obscured or disclosed eyes, you want to welcome the touch of the hands of strangers.
And to share your heartbeat with them.
That after a while are no longer.
Strangers.
Otherwise, how do you think I could start to love the one who brought me into the world?
She was the small inside and after a while the everything outside.
But beyond the borders of those who brought me here for love, I do not know who you are, really.
Forgive me, I have not had time.
That's why I cannot appreciate you.
Nor condemn you.
I do not know, as I will never know, what I would be for you.
I know just one thing.
There was no place for me.
There must be something wrong at the start, then.
I had figured that out there I would find my similar people.
The living ones.
However, if there is no place for those who just arrived.
From far as close.
Well, I wonder: who are you?



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Thursday, February 12, 2015

Diversity stories: three muslim students killed in the silence

Stories and News No. 717

In Chapel Hill, USA, Craig Stephen Hicks shot and killed Yusor Mohammad, 21, Razan Mohammad Abu-Salha, 19, and husband of the oldest, Deah Barakat, 23, all students of the University of North Carolina.
The three were Islamic...

In the silence.

Man shoots and kills three young souls.
Two girls and a guy in the beginning of life.
Three Muslim students.
Muslim.
An adjective, just a word.
Consonants and vowels, letters and sounds.
As other words try to extinguish the fire.

Religion has nothing to do.
Do not make comparisons.
No way.
It is a madman’s action.
It is an isolated incident.
Maybe he was provoked.

No, nothing to do with religion.
Human violence has no limits.
Do not associate.
Because that was another story.
This is the act of a mentally ill person.
It is common in the violent society.
There have been no claims.

Nothing to do with religion.
Do not make combinations.
Because the similarity is not true.
The man was crazy.
Violence is now part of everyday life.
We are losing the perception of what makes us human.
And many of those who read the still warm blood story do not recognize the heat anymore.

No and no.
Religions have nothing to do.
Do not make analogies.
Because every parallelism has no basis.
Only a wavering mind could accomplish such a crime.
We kill with such ease because we have not yet understood the value of life.
What matters now is the pain of those who remain.

In the silence.

In the silence the only reality worthy of the name shines, entered by chance on the upside down other god’s scene.
Religions have nothing to do with it.

You are right.
And you know what?
They have nothing to do ever.

Read other stories about diversity.



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Wednesday, February 11, 2015

Migrants stories: we are human

Stories and News No. 716

Yet another tragedy on Italian shores near Lampedusa: more than three hundred dead.
The survivors say they were forced with guns to embark.
Usual indifference on the news.
Nevertheless, there is always a story here...

Once upon a time there was a family.
A foreign family, I challenge anyone to deny it.
Dad was an immigrant, mom was a refugee, grandma was a clandestine and the child was a stranger.
Unwanted and undesirable persons from every point of view.
Above all, under every sky.
Because there are people who are luckless since the beginning.
And the worst life is for those who before this unhappy fate’s judgment do not surrender.
The foreign family was a shining example.
In fact, they decided to autonomously write their turning page: they prepared luggage and started their journey.
In the sea, of course.
Because those who wait for the moment when the novel will justify the price paid in the library believe the new page begins always on the opposite bank.
Otherwise reading would be too easy.
Let alone writing.
Of course, the word easy was not included in foreign family’s dictionary.
Nothing original and no super hero on the horizon, with miraculous last minute rescues.
Shipwreck and death by drowning was the punishment for them, guilty of trying to change the rules of the game.
The game where only a few can play, so to speak.
You may think: it's over, stale conclusion for usual travelers for life.
Well, no, because here the words are telling stories, until there is space.
In the heart.
Once arrived at the borders of the other world the foreign family was stopped by officers to control documents.
Inevitable fact, since the beyond was created like us.
The four were obviously rejected.
"We have the heaven crisis," an angel said, "the clouds cost a fortune, the wings are consumed: we must first think about us."
"If those upstairs must first think about them," a devil said, "imagine us..."
The foreign family then decided to go into space, but did not find better luck.
Lunatics and Jupiterians, Martians and Venusians, Plutonics and Saturnians, all answered the same way.
"There is a space crisis, Americans, Russians and Chinese are going to steal our water, black holes are threating us, comets no longer arriving on time, etc."
In short, closed doors everywhere.
Lost in the universe, at the mercy of the cosmic void, the foreign family made an emergency landing on a small planet, in an equally tiny galaxy.
Fortunately, this time.
You know, the pages that complement the living narratives are revealed always by mistake.
Or fortunately.
There was a space crisis in the small planet too, it is clear.
The black holes frightened and comets were always late.
But this did not prevent the inhabitants to look into the eyes of newcomers.
To listen to the story.
Because every tale that attempts to resist the death deserves it.
Hi, the survivors said, we are the foreign family.
Greetings to you, the inhabitants replied, we are human.

Read other stories about racism.


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Friday, February 6, 2015

Diversity stories: One child two mothers

Stories and News No. 715

Today is a particular day in the so called eternal city.
The Registry of Civil Status of the City of Rome has recorded the birth of a child of 4 years.
The couple is made of two mothers, from Argentine and Italy.
There will be as usual heated discussions, with fierce criticism and felt congratulations.
These are the words, the following words.
They begin their dance after a few seconds.
Imagine then scrolling to see them on an imaginary screen at double speed.
Triple and even more.
With the volume turned down, hopefully.
So let's stop there, listening the only sound that is genuinely meaningful to speak.

Dear moms,
How many things.
How many things I would have to say to you.
Not as many as they were written.
Exclaimed, and often loudly shouted.
These are the following words.
They are important, I know.
You and all those like me could never ignore them.
Because we are the ones that since the curtain closes bring those words on the shoulders.
In the belly and heart.
It is a burden we have to accept, it is part of the game, no complaints.
We are happy, the rest of us.
Every time we look back, and along with the followed words observe the infinity of creatures condemned not only by simple sets of letters, we cannot avoid to get up every morning with a smile.
How many things I never said.
Not as many as the ones you should never had to hear.
Murmured or even screamed without shame.
Strictly behind you.
These are the words that follow us.
They have always been there, behind us, and who better knows than us.
You and us could never escape.
Because we are those who have dedicated time and life to break them to pieces.
To shatter them with love and hope that one day the right words will come.
Even just one.
That is how we are, the rest of us.
One word and everything can become wonderful.
At worst, simple.
Beloved mothers, how many words I could tell you.
And how many words, the people around you, could listen.
If only they had paid attention to the only answer that is worth the trip.
Father, mother, sister and brother, friends, are you there?
Here we are, my dear. We are here for you and we will always be.
That is how the following words work.
They are like stories.
They should be read to the end.
Like mine.
Thanks, moms.

Read other stories about diversity.






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Thursday, February 5, 2015

Love stories to read: Valentine’s Day 2017 love letter video

Stories and News No. 714

My dearest,

Commercials, events, movies, travels, Rome, Venice, Paris, Verona..
I was looking on Google love phrases that inspire me to write something sweet.
And what did I find when I typed Valentine?
Events, movies and a lot of commercials for travels.
How would we do? Do you see us, you and me, coming on a train or a plane? Maybe on a ship...
People would run away, scared to death. Perhaps more about me, than you, right?
I have always been the most feared among us, but this is normal, because you are the beautiful one, not me.
Then you smile and everybody see the teeth, I agree, but even so you are wonderful to me.
Maybe my mistake was looking on the internet for the words to tell you what I feel. I must look inside of me. In what's left of me, of course.
The horror is back, on TV series, movies and video games, and all are become hunters and gunmen.
Luckily you gave me that beautiful gift, last Halloween.
A steel helmet... what a gift, my soul.
Indeed, my ‘without soul’.
I ever bring it with me.
Okay, not all have perfect aim at shooting and it is not even true that everybody knows the only weak point of people like me, but your thought was extraordinary the same.
The head is my Achilles heel, and you taught me how to protect it.
What better gift might a creature in love give her boyfriend?
By comparison, my blood bathtub was nothing.
Sterilized blood, you know what humans eat humans today... but your helmet has been great.
That's why for this Valentine’s day I wanted to find the perfect words to describe what's in my heart. In the liver, or the stomach, who knows? I do not feel beat in my chest and I have no idea if I still have a heart.
Nothing tragic, right? You and I perfectly know that love is not in the internal organs.
You should look in the eyes, you told me one day.
No, it was a night, I am such an idiot: I've never seen you daily.
Love is in the eyes of those who dream of the happiness of others, you said so, isn’t it?
I've never forgotten. That's why I'm here, now, to write the following words that I hope will remain in your memory as well.
I love you, my vampire, I love you so much that I would give you my death to give back life to you.

Yours for eternity,

Zombie

Read other stories about love.

Watch the video storytelling with English subtitles:






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Wednesday, February 4, 2015

Burned alive Jordan reply: can we start over?

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.
Silently...

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.
Killed.

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.
Aggressor.
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 scepter.
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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