Friday, June 26, 2015

International Day Against Torture 2015: the body is here

Stories and News No. 769

Once upon a time there was a body.
A great one, too much great.
Of different skin colors and genders.
Various age.
And at the thought of looking down in that measure makes the image disturbing.
Yet let’s look, let’s be brave.
Because that body is here.
Let’s approach eyes and heart.
And let’s read.
Let’s read the stories etched in the flesh, as tattoos fed by the worst indelible ink in the universe: the human cruelty.
There is the memory of the cuts.
And the dancing of the burns.
Down there is the show of the bruises.
And further down the gift of the lashes.
No, let’s not avert our eyes.
Let’s read together, again.
There is an echo of the beating.
And above the shadow of the blows.
Over there are the consequences of punches.
And there those of kicks.
Yes, I know, that is a filthy storytelling, but it is here.
The body is still here.
So let’s not give up.
Because we have to read more.
There is dried still too red blood.
And hematoma of the soul that is purple only on the surface, but deeply it survives regardless of the color.
There is the internal fracture, of bones and other concealed fragilities.
And there is the trauma of the after, cancer that you can hardly eradicate alone.
Without the help of those who, like it or not, allowed the abuse.
Of the body.
That is here.
That's why we have to read.
All the stories.
To write together the final word.
As the postscript.
Nevermore

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Thursday, June 25, 2015

Gay Immigrants Romani people etc.: rights for all or nobody

Stories and News No. 768

Once upon a time there were the people of rights.
That population was made up of many kind of persons.
Different, despite appearances.
So far, we are still in the land of banality.
So be brave, let us strive to leave.

Inside the people made up of many different persons, despite appearances, there were some who claimed to be in favor of migrants and the resulting free movement of survivals.
Hopes.
And the only possible future, where we are all equally guests.
Nevertheless, at the same time, many of them stood up against the unpopular and uncomfortable inhabitant of lager 2.0.
In short, Romani people.
In other words: I'm not racist, I’m totally not, but the 'gypsies'...

At the same time, in the same people, perhaps even sitting alongside, there were those who screamed in defense of the latter: "Don’t say ‘gypsies’, that is offensive."
However, seamless in the heart, the same persons were against any alternative to the canon as quite matrimonial mosaic, pointing as vicious frenzy every type of intercourse considered alien.
That is, with one face-side I defend the rights of Romani people and with the other I fight for the so-called traditional family.
What do they do with the third side, because there's always a third in such cases, it is better not to know.

On the enemy fence, confused in the same people, there were those who felt proud of their gender emancipation, making it a flag, real and metaphorical.
Nevertheless, a blink of an eye later, you would have been able to listen them in monologues against invaders of the home soil, guilty of the worst congenital fault: to be born ‘there’ and pretend to live ‘here’, instead of dying ‘in the middle’.
Synthesizing, I want free love by day and prisoner immigrants by night.
Or vice versa, depending on how I wake up in the morning.

In the same people, a few meters away, clandestines causes activists, borders breakers and customs eaters strongly disagreed, screaming passionately.
But among them you could see those that just a moment before were showing their disdain for the souls deemed eccentric, stubborn in manifesting at the sunlight the colors of their erotic imagination.
Translating: I am close to the immigrants who dream of a better tomorrow, but I stay well away from the 'sexual men', ‘women who copulate with themselves’ and ‘those who travel from a nature to another one’, even if I have not yet figured out if I have to call them male or female.

I will stop here, although I might add those who wish to protect the ‘abused animals’ but not the ‘victims of homophobia’ and those who were sharpening their knives with the insensitive persons towards the ‘differently abled’ and then put them back in the drawer if ‘differently’ also included ‘sexual orientation’.

Once upon a time there were people.
Another kind of.
That one formed by the rest of the persons.
Those who are not a population.
They are just a lump of flesh saturated with hatred and loneliness.
Which a long ago has dismissed the last remnants of humanity left.
But they are strong, lump of flesh or true population, they are still very strong.
And their strength is only one.
The dull and unforgivable division.
Of the people of rights...

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Wednesday, June 24, 2015

Natural family definition explained by an alien

Stories and News No. 767

Once upon a time there was an alien.
An alien named Buk.
He had been sent long ago on earth to observe.
Writing down.
And, based solely on what his eyes had carefully seen, try to understand.
Once that is done, Buk would have been return to his planet and tell what had understood of mankind.
In particular, his mission was about the human family.
Once at home he was immediately questioned by his colleagues explorers.
"Tell us, Buk, what the human family is founded on?"
The alien made it clear that the earth was very different from them.
On the Buk’s planet family is founded on the union between a person and a book.
A book of stories, of course.
Some of you will wonder how it is possible that a living creature and a book can flirt, let alone procreate, fight with a lot of throwing slippers and smashing plates, then making love again, and unfortunately leaving.
Then remaining friends, but maybe not.
It is, it is very possible, Buk might explain, because in the books of stories you can really find everything.
And there's nothing in the universe that you could not find in a story.
So nothing and no one could be excluded because was considered different or wrong.
"The human family is not founded on the union between a person and a book", Buk wanted immediately to clarify. "They barely read them, let alone promising their eternal love to a novel..."
"But then," his curious friends said, "what wonder more amazing than a union between a person and a book is the human family founded on? A union with a giant cup of strawberries and cream?"
"No, because later they would eat it again and again, so they would betray the first and all subsequent too easily."
"A union with a dip in the waves of crystal water after a smooth run-up on a not too hot sand?"
"No, not at all, because after this run-up they would forget the importance of the adjective crystalline and they would commit, as they always do, fouling up oceans with all the imaginable garbage."
"What about the union with a movie, anyone, able to donate a good laugh in the saddest moment of their lives?"
"No, not really, because you speak about an ephemeral serenity and family, as you all well know, need a long life of it."
"What you think about a union with a dream?"
"Some humans try but when they decide to make their love public, going out hand in hand through the streets, it's as... as if that dream was a balloon and everyone felt entitled to puncture it."
"Union between two humans?"
"Define humans."
"Buk, do not talk like Hal 9000... we mean human beings."
"Forgive me, I am still confused because I heard someone, strong of alleged overcrowding, saying that the family is founded on two specific types humanoids."
"What?"
"Men and women, the latter under protection, because in their judgment could cause homicides."
"We do not understand at all."
"Me neither, and I was also on the earth."
"However, do you understand if the human family is or is not founded on the union between men and women?"
"Define men and women. No, I am just kidding... calm down. Basing on what I've seen I have not yet understood what the human family is founded on, but I discovered one thing."
"What?"
"To really understand you have to go inside a real family and not looking at it from the outside as you would do with a painting."
"How?"
"By asking permission with much, much respect and courtesy."
"And then?"
"And then, perhaps, you would know a little more about what that family is funded on. Regarding the others it would take too long. Only a human person would be so arrogant and megalomaniac to claim to know what are founded on. "
All billion families of the earth...

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Friday, June 19, 2015

World’s oldest person alive today: letter from woman to woman

Stories and News No. 766

116 years old, Jeralean Talley has died. She was the oldest woman in the world, that is the oldest ‘person’ in the world.
She was.
Because 21 grams later this record has come to Susannah Mushatt Jones, who will reach the same Jeralean’s age on July 6th.
Here is an imaginary baton passing by letter.
From the old mother of the world to the new one...

Dear Susannah,
here we are.
The moment has come.
Time is now.
So the inhabitants of the TV say when the instant is solemn.
Ladies and gentlemen, the winner is... and let us go with the more or less spontaneous applauses, the important flashes and, who knows, the standing ovation too.
Yes, I know that I could not give you that.
We both ran.
I had no time for greetings.
And you have certainly had not time to say hello to me.
Who has left the scepter.
What nonsense, right?
We are, and we will still be with you, the only real queens of time on earth, but we had found ourselves not having enough.
To look into our eyes.
To shake our hands and maybe hug.
To blink, no needing to talk.
Here, try to draw with me that elusive moment stolen to history.
I am there waiting for you... well, no, it is me that coming to you, sitting on the porch with iced tea on the table and the wagging dog although almost dormant.
I start to climb the stairs, a couple, and you get up to meet me.
All right, let us not speak of our mutual ill mobility.
You invite me to sit on the chair next to yours.
A rocking one, please, be precise in our imaginative framework.
I have always loved dancing and, despite the total approximation, at my age I am happy also with a silent knight of wood that can does just back and forth.
Anyway, many so-called champions of the dance floor do much less, yet they boast.
We are sipping tea and still not talking.
We observe, however.
Indeed, we both admire the rest of mankind reachable with eyes and memory from the porch of the oldest women in the world.
Oldest people, to be precise, as the preface says.
But here, I write women and that applies to the rest.
Because, perhaps, it is not by chance that we two were chosen live in the highest apartment.
Of a special skyscraper, where time is really money.
No, I correct myself: it is worth much more.
Time is time and there is no greater wealth.
For those like us who remember.
To say properly goodbye, we like it or not, to whom will take our place.
Wherever they are.
And from anywhere in the world they will arrive...

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Thursday, June 18, 2015

Charleston Church Shooting hate crime everytime

Stories and News No. 765

Speaking of the massacre in the church of Charleston, South Carolina, USA, where a young man killed nine people – according to the news he seems to be ‘white’, the police chief says there is no doubt that it was a hate crime.
The religion of the killer, if he is Catholic rather than Buddhist, does not matter.
No matter whether he is a perfect citizen, a regular immigrant or an illegal one.
It is not relevant even if he has to do with the Isis or Al Qaida.
And I do not think that is because we are talking about a ‘white’ guy.
What intrigues me is the nature of the crime...

Once upon a time there was the hate crime.
Everytime.
Especially the others.

When you close your brain, if you really have one, and open the taps of a putrid belly, vomiting delusions and dullness insulting entire populations, feelings, traditions and lives.
Lives who read and suffer, more or less in silence.

Everytime, really all.
More than ever the others.
Where, due to the alleged heat of your peers, you feel multiply within your courage to face a cowardice that will always remain huge, and stare your gaze on the first existence near your grudge.
He just need to be alone.
She just has to be vulnerable.
There should be at least one.

Everytime, all right.
Starting with the others.
When you turn to the strictly soft side, you clench lips and soul with the same fearful hurry, and although you perfectly know well where truth, justice and humanity flourish, you join the dance of silence.
Because otherwise we would have obtained ‘low votes percentages’.
Because otherwise we would lose ‘subscribers’ and ‘I like it’.
Because otherwise we would not be ‘so many’ anymore.

Everytime, every, yes.
Without neglecting the others.
Where you believe to be among the ranks of the good ones, but you did not take care of the actual destination of your words, your gestures and your looks.
If only we had the chance to follow them up to the most fragile goal.
If only we had the possibility of being that fragile goal.
And if only we had the opportunity to go back and remedy.

Once upon a time there was the hate crime.
But everytime, let us consider them all.
And, in one of them, let’s begin to think very carefully.
Before saying or doing anything...

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Wednesday, June 17, 2015

Migrants on rocks in Ventimiglia: we won

Stories and News No. 764

A message in the bottle from a young immigrant on a rock in Ventimiglia.
Entrusted letter to the sea waves, hoping it gets to destination.
Without breaking…

Dear mother,
we won.
Almost...
You and I, we did.
More or less...
For dad.
Who wanted nothing more than that.
For us.
Who could not ask for more.
Not reaching the goal. Never touching the promised land. Maybe putting on our feet and feeling it ours.
Meanwhile, we watch.
We are the ones who do not cry when the ground finally appears on the horizon, because the joy is unstoppable, breath escaped and the forces are all in the latest effort: the victory.
Almost...
Screaming at the finish is a privilege for the ancestors of the memory sick guys, which today demean our souls, ignoring of doing the same with their very own.
And they are right, if some of these people cling to the idea that their ancestors were very different from us.
Yeah, it is so, but not for the reasons they think.
Because ‘travelers for the life’ of the last century came on ships worthy of the name.
Everything but clusters of wood, hopes and fears, countless fears.
All linked by live blood that flows copiously from indomitable hearts.
Read as well as ‘who can be so naive to think they can stop us?’
We are crazy, right?
Once they kidnap and chain us, promising a hell of oppression and injustice.
Today we come with our own free will, often encountering the same destiny.
You know, it might be that humans of the visible side of the moon were so nice.
Perhaps it happens because we really want to rob them of their future.
Or maybe we realized that they threw it to the sea and we have smelled it.
We could be just creatures who jump into the sea hypnotized by a spell called horizon.
Possible one.
And now we have won, Mom.
You and me.
Almost...
For dad and for us.
More or less...
Because the rest of us know that our victory will never be getting on the highest podium. Lifting the Gold Cup. And receiving the ovation of the crowd.
Watching is our reward.
Watching the end with a very naked eye.
So the beginning.
The rest of the world that you can admire from a rock, a few meters from the new story, the missing earth.
We will wait to get there, we will wait for it to get to us.
Meanwhile, beloved mother, exult.
We won because we are still alive.
And who does not understand it.
He is dead.
Or he never really was.
Alive...

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Friday, June 12, 2015

Gay Pride Rome 2015: when we will be proud

Stories and News No. 763

Saturday there will be the Rome Gay Pride 2015.
Waiting for another day...

Once upon a time there was a day.
Which we are proud of.
Already now, we are.
Of the next tomorrow, we are.
But today, here, inside.
We are proud to be joyful.
I mean the sentiment as the nature which they need.
Still too much, they need to draw us.

We are also proud to be a lot.
How many you can count with naked eye.
And not only in the solitude, even if brave, of our own imagination.

We are also proud to give sound to the fragile strophes.
Which in the past were deleted from the final script.
As simple misprints or vain redundancies of the human lexicon.

We are proud to be able to be.
Proud.
And look that is much more than what you can image.

We are proud of our eyes in yours.
Who observe closely, as sheltered from a monitor.
Yet, this is strong stuff too, believe me, if I think back to when also a stupid look could hurt.
What it should instead be cherished.

We are proud of the others.
In order of importance, of course.
Whose is now, next to us on the road.
But especially those who have traveled the same road by first.
Ignoring completely that there would be the rest.
The wonderful second, the worshiped third.
Up to us.

We are proud of colors and shapes.
Which you might reduce to a mere superficiality of the moment.
They are like loudly singing that peacefully react, despite a delay.
From a lifetime of abuse and injustice.

We are proud to be here today.
To be wherever we will be.
The next day and everyone else.

Nevertheless, we are immensely proud to have led the colorful ship called humanity.
Which, willingly and unwillingly, we sail on together to the destination it deserves.
The day when everyone, without exception, will be only proud.
Of being alive…

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Thursday, June 11, 2015

Government letter anti immigration: original text

Stories and News No. 762

Roberto Maroni, the governor of Lombardy, Italy region, after having informed the mayors, wrote a letter to the prefectures on the possible welcome of immigrants.

*Dear fellow citizens,
we live in difficult times.
And in difficult times we must remain united.
All united towards one goal.
Make our nation ever greater.
To do this we need to have eyes and ears open.
You will have to do so.
So we will.
You know the enemy, you know him well.
And he is among the most dangerous opponent.
Because all of you know him well.
He lives in the opponent building.
You look him out the window.
He passes by on the sidewalk.
He comes in with you in the door.
He is beyond the next door.
And, in some cases, even living in your home.
The enemy is an enemy.
He merges, disguises, pretending to be like us, but its diversity is clearly visible to the clear eye.
He should be recognized, he must be fought with courage and mercilessly beaten.
This is our duty.
This is your duty.
Woe.
Woe to those who will give asylum to the enemy or will hide him from the government.
Woe to those who do not accomplish their duty to the nation.
This is not intimidation.
This is not a threat.
You have nothing to fear.
If you do your homework.
As good citizens.
We do not ask for extreme actions.
Names.
Names and faces.
Addresses and culprits.
Give us a name, an address and a face of the guilty.
We will do what is left.
For you.
Because this is our duty.
Because this you gave us power for.
To make our nation great.
Victorious.
And pure.

*Germany 1938, letter against the Jews by the Nazi government to the families of Berlin.

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Wednesday, June 10, 2015

Stories about life: World first birth frozen ovary

Stories and News No. 761

News from Belgium: first world case for a so young patient, I read that a thirteen girl from Congo who had a ovary removed, at 27 years old became a mother thanks to her transplanted ovarian tissue.
A journey, a story.
14 years long...

Once upon a time there was you.
Mother, no.
Not then.
Not a hope, perhaps a dream.
Certainly a possibility.
Those you keep there, between hands folds, which everyone knows and claims to read better than you.
Ignoring what you will still write.
That is where I died.
That is where I was born.
Among what the conceited book tells.
And what you, my beloved reader, will hope.
I have traveled, since then I have traveled.
With a solitary memory overhead.
A single page.
Enclosed in a verse.
Filled by only one face.
A teenager, with the skin watered by wrong tears.
Because that is the most humanly mistaken script.
The one that destroys bridges to other lives.
Which are not you.
That is where I died.
That is where I was born.
With the inevitable conviction that the story was all there.
A clean break with no return.
We know, you and I, that this is the most popular tale.
Where someone would arrogate to himself the right to write it for us.
Irreversible.
All must be so, there is no possibility to change destiny.
For the small lives in the world, on the scene by chance or accident.
And for those that are as little as not even fit in the frame.
The sky or everyone else bless the time.
That sometimes has the good taste to derail the merciless board.
Where the winner are anymore used to celebrate and who loses has stopped fighting for the same reason.
Down the towers, ladies and gentlemen, let us unhorse the knights and disarm the bishops.
Bow down and clap, kings and queens.
Because this time the award goes to pedestrians.
That is where we are dead.
That is where we were born.
Once upon a time there was me.
And you, Mom.
Courage.
Let us start over where we left off from...

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Friday, June 5, 2015

Stories about life: What is the main export in Africa

Stories and News No. 760

Last night in Accra, Ghana, a terrible explosion and an equally terrible fire in a service station caused a massacre of people who tried to escape the terrible torrential rains that flooded the streets.
At least 200 dead...

Once upon a time there were the natural resources.
Yes, those.
No, no, I am not speaking of the normal stuff.
The virgin water, I know.
Life pregnant ground and clear air, I see.
But I said other stuff.
The special one.
The one we live for.
The one we die for.
We are here.
Do not bother, we come.
Because only the rest of us may come to you.
To bring gifts.
That is The White Side Santa Claus Theorem, a necessary condition, never enough.
From above, coming down with the bag, means party and colors, smiles and quiet days for everybody.
On the contrary, even climbing with the bag over your shoulder and a thick beard on your face, we will not buy anything from you, because you have nothing to give us.
Riches, sure.
I understand, all bright and green substances.
But we come to you.
We have special stuff for you.
To make your normal life less normal.
Much less.
We carry an idea.
Just one.
To make your world similar to our own.
In order for the day you will come here and we will see you so familiar as we will finally be able to accept you.
We come, now, stay well seated.
You have metals, oil and gas.
We have thirsty cars.
And obliging oil stations.
At the end of the day, you will miss only one thing to be perfect.
Finishing the journey as we do.
With an absurd death in the flames of a gas pump...

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Thursday, June 4, 2015

Rome Mafia migrant center corruption: the great diner

Stories and News No. 759

Once upon a time there was a table.
A large table, all set for supper.
Tablecloth and plates, glasses and cutlery.
And diners.
Many diners, many more than they seem.
Oh come on, let us look at the whole thing, at least here.
Let us start from the dish of the day.
As the night.
That is just one.
A beautiful tray, longer than wide.
Size, let us say human.
In measure, never feelings or something like that.
The name of the dish?
Well, you do, the name does not matter, the words you might use to call what is daily broken in pieces by sly drunken jaws make no difference.
It hurt, there is no doubt.
However, as an ancient as anonymous proverb from savannah said: ‘In nature only prey knows the real taste of the pain’.
‘Spaghetti with migrants’, ‘Tagliatelle with clandestines’ and ‘Pizza four strangers’.
Nevertheless, the menu is well-known.
That is there, every day, cooked or raw, torn on the tables so many times as to become traditional dish, as the ‘Neapolitan coffee’ and the ‘Risotto alla Milanese’.
The real show are the diners.
There are them, of course, the villains who profit on migrants centers.
In the capital, as from north to south of the peninsula.
But there are all the others.
The guests who complete the table and eat their part, oh, if they eat it.
Those that feeding with the migrant meal, officially spitting in the plate which they depend on, have built a political career, town, mountains and sea houses.
They hate the refugees meat by words, in fact they did not spare even the bones.
Then there are the excited spewing creatures, with large mouth and unattended skull.
They are many and fill much of the table.
Just as they do with abdomen and head, starting from the latter, victim of an unacceptable loneliness.
Without question, they swallow everything the man they consider strong passes.
All good, if it is flesh, alive flesh, possibly undefended and indefensible.
Today ‘Roma people Soup’ is very fashionable, where you can put everything, because anything goes right.
Then they throw out and start again, because that is the only way to remain at the table, along with the others, to feel strong.
Along with the others.
But there is still room at the table for them, the reporters of the horrendous dinner, with an incredible power in their hands.
In the pens, as in the letters on the keyboard.
Difficult to use each other, where the fingers are convulsively gripping the favorite weapons.
Fork and knife.
Witnesses on behalf of History, not testifying at all.
They see, they understand, but then they snap and tear like everyone else.
Once upon a time there was a table.
A huge table, all set.
Cutlery, plates, glasses and of course tablecloth.
But the real show is the guests.
Many, many more than you think.
Dear friend who reads and listens.
Think about it, look around.
Be careful.
Because, without realizing it, you might be there...

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Wednesday, June 3, 2015

Moral stories about news: how much it cost

Stories and News No. 758

I read that, since we have 14 survivors and 40 bodies recovered, there are still 400 people missing in the Yangtze River in Hubei province, China.
400 people.
Four hundred.
I read in the 'little paragraph' on the bottom left.
Kept space for the terrible sinking of the cruise ship.
I read, I read even more.
And, perhaps, I understand...

Once upon a time there was a news.
A news as many.
Really, nothing extraordinary.
Poor her, poor them.
Living between those words.
Maybe forever.
Because their history is all there, for those who are too much hurry to look down.
Read as well as ‘where the valuable life’s scraps end up’.
The news as many, nothing exceptional, poor her, poor them, concerned a handful of human beings’ fate.
A handful, yes.
Yes, human beings.
Because the miniscule lives, although grouped by love or bad luck, are squeezable in the palm of your hand without any effort.
They are small.
Or, perhaps, your hand is too large.
Nevertheless, even in the eventualities of the world strictly in the footer of noble creation, ambitions are blooming.
The most naive, in fact.
Well, go to explain them, try to dissuade them as well, those guys.
Convinced by the unlikely hope that's enough even only one of the last people victory and will be joy for all.
I was with him, I was next to her.
I was there and I know everything.
What the press will say and TV will show.
What they tell about her and will show about him.
But above all, I will know ‘the rest’.
The ambition of the news of the suspended souls was getting to the top, on the roof of words that long ago appropriated the honor to tell the big trip.
At the beginning, she took the field bold, a bit too much, to be honest.
Convinced that the mere story was enough to earn at least the podium.
A handful of lives, but are we joking?
Minuscule, that is clear, but the hand is great, we said, right?.
Nothing to do, the fingers slipped on the reflexes mirrors of conscious indifference and unaware distractions.
“Wait,” the news said, “suddenly realizing the hint.”
“Among the handful of lives there are your countrymen!”
“Interested, huh?” She said gloating, seeing the return of fickle flashes and as inconstant microphones.
The news plunged her hands in the prose hemisphere and told.
Invented.
She invented, dressing herself in familiar shades and moving colors.
She liked, let's say.
Staying there, dazzled by the eyes that would have suggested the rest of the planet where to look, was intoxicating, and she thought she would do anything to stay.
Once upon a time.
There was a news.
Once upon a time there was the news of a handful of creatures at the mercy of fate.
There was, to be precise.
Because the news that there is, today, now, at this very moment.
It is not even a shadow of what it was.
Because the top has a price.
And who is willing to pay for it needs no shadows.
Just like everything is behind us.
Surviving.
Or less...

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Monday, June 1, 2015

Stories about life: Paula cooper US youngest death row inmate

Stories and News No. 757

In those days, when the Republican Nebraska has abolished the death penalty, Paula Cooper, the US youngest death row inmate for the murder of an elderly teacher, has died. She was the sixteen years old girl who saw her death sentence commuted to 60 years and then 28 for good behavior, thanks to a significant international support.
She committed suicide after two years of freedom
...

Once upon a time there were ‘those who were right’.
They still are.
By the way, we all are.
Because everyone, deeply down, thinks to be right.
 

Those who now reproach that death was what she then deserved.
The woman who once was a teenager.
Yes, teenager, but still murderess.
And when you was it at the time, so you will be forever.
Both teenager.
And murderess.
You might to image redemptive futures and compensation of an unexpected virtuous act.
Guilt is guilt.
Even if it was a still warm blood on your hands, or screaming sadistic ghost inside the pillow.
It makes no difference.
For ‘those who were right’.
That still are, especially now.
All, in fact.

Like those who many came on the uncomfortable balance plate.
Especially in the beginning, when the weight makes you more vulnerable than influential.
But today, more than all today, they read the final proof in the insane move.
The only inevitable human condemnation.
A never ignorable judge and a jury.
There, always sitting and at any time staring.
Even if they were whites or blacks, the ‘necessary’ color selection changes nothing.
Inside you.
They are right, they are all right, now.

Even those who now accuse each crack of the after, which cynically welcomes guilty lives that survived the guillotine.
And also the fatalist persons with the unlucky existences by birth.
Which it will never come out something good from.
Certainly not better than what had been decided for them.
They all are right, yes.

Those who now dedicate a thought to the victim of the murderer.
Who have never ceased to keep an eye and heart ceaselessly glued to the ripped life from the world by the inhumanity of the girl.
As if that might be enough to revive both.
Celebrating the former and torturing the latter ad libitum.

Once upon a time there were ‘those who are and were right’.
All, being honest.
Since all, if you think about it, think they have the truth in their pocket.
And because if they could write a story at their pleasure.
The only thing that would have really not changed the ending.
It is the 'necessary' or 'inhuman' death penalty...



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