Friday, November 27, 2015

Stories about climate change for kids: Borbolakiricokò’s Test

Stories and News No. 819

Once upon a time there was the world climate conference.
Leaders everywhere.
State and Party, overt as tacit appropriately alliances.
Envy big towns and envious small villages.
All leaders.
The last to arrive were them.
The two representatives of the inhabitants of Borbolakiricokò Island, a man and a woman.
"You are not on the list..." The usher informed them at the entrance hall of the elegant meeting room.
"Well, we are not even on the map," the man said, a small tanned guy, almond blue-eyed, blond dreadlocks and purple goatee as Johnny Depp punk version. An ethnic potpourri.
"Nevertheless, the lady next to me is the queen of Borbolakiricokò and we're here because we care about the planet earth."
The usher was about to close the door, when the woman, a tall and large lady, albino tail on the skull polished like a mirror and disproportionate glasses as Elton John in the most excessive concerts, merely cleared her throat.
The man was shaken by a chill that troubled him somewhat.
"P-Please ..." He mumbled intimidated stepping aside.
The two went beyond the threshold, and instead of looking for any plate with their names to sit - impossible given that no one was waiting for them, they began to approach directly every colleagues leaders.
The man said the same preamble to everybody: "The Queen and I come from the Borbolakiricokò Island and we're here because we care about the planet earth."
Then he added: "We are poor and we are looking for someone to entrust the future of the earth."
Then he posed a question: "Suppose I'll give you a book and you knew there is written in the best way to survive in the future. What will you do with it? "
There were those who said they would study deeply the volume so to not repeat the past mistakes.
And who would have allocated billions to realize the great findings in the book.
Who would have print a lot of copies so that everyone could benefit from it.
And who would have made it a blockbuster in 3D.
Because a book can be a bestseller, but a movie may invade the globe, man!
Who strongly disagreed arguing that the web would be the best vehicle to spread the news of salvation.
Because the word viral was born on internet, man!
There were those who intimated the two to lower their voice immediately.
Do you want the Chinese hear this?
Do you want the Russians hear this?
And what about the Americans?
Do you want anyone who does not take earth as we do will hear this?
"But it's just a hypothetical test," the little man replied, "we don’t have any book…”
It was then that many of the alleged leaders began to treat them with condescension and sarcasm.
So, the corpulent queen of Borbolakiricokò and her companion left the climate very sad.
They had reached the port to board their ship, when a voice called to them from behind.
They turned and saw a ten years old child, disheveled and fiery life eyes.
"Sorry... but do you come from the Borbolakiricokò Island?"
"How do you know?"
"Because it was a story that my father told me when I was little. You should be the gruff queen and her small friend. "
"Where's your daddy?"
"He died of lung cancer, he worked in a mine."
The small man looked at the queen for approval and the latter grunted.
With tears in her eyes, she grunted affirmatively.
The same question of the world leaders was said to the child, and he answered: "I would take the book and, without opening it, I would hide in the most valuable place in the world, where it will survive the time."
"Why?" The queen asked before the astonished eyes of the small man. She did not speak from since 1973, when she exclaimed “ouch” having stepped on a weever.
You know, Borbolakiricokò weevers are great like tuna, no jokes.
"Simple," the boy said. "Because so people in the future can be saved."
The Queen and the small man showed a huge smile.
"To you," they said almost in unison.
"Young man, we will leave the earth’s future to you."
Because the best person to entrust the future is the one who will love it more than the past.
And the present too.

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Thursday, November 26, 2015

Racism stories: I would like one day

Stories and News No. 818

One day.
One day is enough for me.
A day when we will all be disabled.
No, not diversely abled, which is a tolerated euphemism to evoke yet another human wonder.
Disabled, that is what I mean.
Lack of normally wasted skills.
Debased as undervalued.
All blind, then.
Although for a single day, all unable to accuse alleged guilty skin colors.
All unable to fear the supposed scandalous clothes.
And no one will be able to take advantage of vulnerable forms to cover own cowardice.
All unreachable by words written strictly turning back to the heart. Far from delusional sentences erased for twenty-four hours from the sadistic machine called news, which does not miss the occasion to ride on helpless grounds.
All deaf, so.
And even for a single day, all indifferent to the timely screams of the professional parasite, always ready to throw himself on the monster that he designed.
Okay, no heavenly music and natural melodies.
Silence, absolute absence of sound.
Empty bracket between two noises.
In other words, an extraordinary gift.
For a day.
All paralyzed, then.
Perfectly still.
Perfect, until proven otherwise. Inevitable demonstration that will return on time for each one of us at the end of the dream.
But for one day, no one will abuse someone.
And no one will reject someone else.
No one will step aside if the right finger will point.
And no one will even put someone else.
In his place.
No one will start new wars.
And all we will have to wait.
To start fighting.
Or stop doing it.
Once and for all.
One day, just one day, I wonder nothing more.
And then we will wake up.
Seeing, hearing, walking.
And maybe flying.
As we all should have done.
From the beginning…




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Wednesday, November 25, 2015

Diversity stories: victims of the day after

Stories and News No. 817

Once upon a time there were attacks.
Terrorism and massacres.
Once upon a time there were assassins, or whatever you prefer to call them.
Justifying fear and hatred, needs, interests and everything you will tell not even your mother.
And then there are them.
You see, you have to look at them, the victims.
Especially those that must necessarily be seen.
Until night falls.
It may happen tomorrow, the next time, the following one and in the end it comes.
The day after.
The time of the others.
The new victims, so different, almost invisible to the naked eye, without time and humanity.
So, randomly, there are victims because they resembled the bad guys.
And the victims because we were looking for the bad guys, but… anyway, we found them.
There are survived victims to the vengeance of the day after the other massacre.
Because no, we had not forgotten at all of them.
There are the victims of peace given by war to restore peace where war has destroyed the peace of those who only saw the war on television.
And victims of that war before called peace, but now we can no longer hide.
Because yes.
This time we had forgotten them.
There are also victims just because are staying there, in the public square, close to the global target.
Where we will have to take sides, let off steam or, at worst, distract us.
From us.
And there are victims of rejected words, reneged and vomited again on indefensible skins and victims of retouched images with skillful malice or just selected at random.
Finally, here come the victims born victims.
Good for any season.
Or war.
Once upon a time there were massacres.
Attacks and terrorism.
Once upon a time there were killers, or whatever you intend to imagine them.
Alleviating violence and abuse, selfishness, oppression and all that you would tell only your buddies.
And then there are them.
You see, you must remember the victims.
Especially those that should necessarily be remembered.
Until the darkness arrives.
It will happen at dawn, the next one, but in the end it always comes.
The day after.
Where the victims, the others, will be sacrificed.
In the silence of the majority of people.

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Friday, November 20, 2015

Moral stories: Not in my name from Rome to Paris

Stories and News No. 816

Tomorrow there will be a demonstration in Rome.
I read that "the goal is to strongly condemn the recent massacre in Paris, expressing the deepest feeling of closeness to the French people."

Not in my name.
If today I were a believer, I would think that.
Perhaps I would whisper it.
Maybe I would even say.
Certainly I will exclaim so if I believed in any faith, before those who use the latter to spread distrust, their god to see him biting the others, his own symbol to crucify the presumed opponent.

Not in my name.
I would shout out loud that listening to those who, like vultures with beaks always pointed to the most defenseless people on earth, do not fail to tear the formidable monster designed by the lords of the news.
And never satisfied, they are ready to snap any prey that might in some way be dragged in.
In the pot.

Not in my name.
I might even record it on my forehead and all those who regularly are assimilated into the soothing mask of the enemy that we are making every day more and more large.
Then the next day I will regret it, because it would test even my failure, as if the force of fear resided as much in the foolishness of the vile as the weakness of the persecuted.

Not in my name.
I would write it on the entrance of my conscience, illuminated by the memory of every time the dance called war goes on stage.
The war that did not yet touch you personally and the one that will do it tomorrow, which will continue to affect you, while you do not distinguish the blast’s wind from the usual morning breeze.
The war that led to the war and the one that should have stopped it.
Wars, all wars, which are in no hurry and with feral calm slowly build, in the heart of those who remain, the illusory fuse that will never pay off the debt.
The worse war.
The habit of war.

Not in my name.
I should think, whisper and with all the breath available.
Scream.
In front of the incalculable number of violence yesterday, now and tomorrow, that we insist on confining inside the box of shame.
Where all the names are written except ours.

Not in my name.
Always and in every case.
If I were a human being...

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Thursday, November 19, 2015

Attacks, bombs, death and tragedy: now what?

Stories and News No. 815

The shots thunder stopped.
The blood stained the road.
And the dull human brutality has claimed other victims.
"Now what?" The child asks.
The mother catches the words as a flutter of butterfly on antipodes, the proverbial effect for inferior class earthquakes.
Each atom that makes up the woman is violently stretched out to the exact center of the black hole that just swallowed the love of her life.
Or the other one.
Blessed are those who can easily enjoy the easiest among the remedies to pain.
Indulge it completely.
In order for the river to flow and being able to observe someday its reflections from up there.
Over.
Any place that is somehow definable far away.
However, after an unspeakable tragedy, there are some who do not share such good fortune, if we can call it so.
And the loudest call chains them to the ground.
The love that survives.
That will survive.
Only for you.
"What did you say, son?" The woman enquires staring at her bed suddenly become huge.
"What we do now, Mom?"
She finds strength.
Inside herself.
Nothing supernatural.
It's just that they have already taken out everything.
So, looking at the child, with a strenuous effort she manages to retain the right tears.
The holy wrath.
And the human bitterness.
"Dear son, I tell you what we won’t do.
"We won’t give up.
"We won’t remain motionless as a dead in a tomb.
"We won’t let the bombs and bullets decide our future.
"We won’t allow it to erase our past.
"All, without exception, all the memories that bind us to your father.
"For him, for us, for you.
"We’ll go forward, we’ll walk and we will move forward as winners.
"Because we’re still alive.
"Because in addition to life, ours and that of those we love, they cannot take away anything more.
"And most importantly, because we won’t give in, never, hate and fear."

2003, Iraq, dialogue between a child and his mother, one of the many widows among the survivors of more one hundred thousand civilian deaths following the Second Gulf War (2003-2011)

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Wednesday, November 18, 2015

Stories about racism: Bomb threat today home of the terrorist Calogero

Stories and News No. 814

Once upon a time there was a particular story.
And, at the same time, you do not imagine how common it was.
The main character's name was Calogero.
He has long and thick beard and brown eyes.
So his father.
Calogero had dark skin.
So his mother.
His father.
And even his grandfather.
Because Calogero, his mother, his father and also his grandfather came all from Sicily, South Italy, where many people have brown skin and eyes too.
Calogero was deaf-mute and atheist, but those are little details.
He had just arrived in a typical building of a common town inhabited by ordinary people.
That is, the average stuff.
Except him.
Calogero, incredibly shy and unsociable, lived alone and worked by night in a confectionery.
But it was worth it, because mixing and filling for hours, while most of the neighbors was asleep, was the missing dish balance.
Donating sweetness from dusk to dawn, for the one who was utterly unable to do so in the rest of the time.
However, such personnel soul compensation was just one of many secrets hidden beyond walls too thick walls to give in to easy suspects.
It was precisely because of the latter that in the aftermath of yet another so called Islamic attack his neighbors immediately pointed the finger at the newcomer: Calogero, or “the Muslim who lives on the top floor”.
So, in the following days something important happened inside the confines of his eyes, the only window where he was allowed to appear.
Suspicious looks.
And mosaics of equally circumspect lips.
Hostile faces and no less acrimonious gestures.
Along with a multitude of subtle details, negligible to most.
While this is the world and more according to those who live only for subtle details.
I do not want to imply that somehow the misunderstanding caused the end of the story.
However, Calogero could not give them a meaning and maybe it was good.
Perhaps it was a bad thing, who knows.
Nevertheless it made him hurt.
Then another evening came, the last one, where the man proceeded to put on the usually abundant coffee before going to work.
Just a few seconds and a huge explosion destroyed a life, and the wall that hid it.
“The Muslim blew himself up”, was the news for the neighbors who fled screaming into the street, terrified of being the new prey of the trendy monster, as suggested by the nobles remote control buttons.
“Calogero died from a gas leak”, the side note for all others…

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Saturday, November 14, 2015

Paris attacks 2015: the same old story

Stories and News No. 813

There was once a story that repeats itself.
You will see, once again it will.
Because the movie is that, the script is always the same.
That's why the ending does not change.
They call other actors, inventing charming settings and playing with words.
The show will offer every time the same message.
War and peace.
Democracy and terrorism.
The narrator from the highest stage will scream loudly, the soundtrack will be unbearable and you will have to listen.
It works, it is the bestseller product, because it respects the first rule of the storytelling.
The best lie is the one that mixes truth with fiction and so it is for the good story as the bad news.
It's true, the voice does not fails, democracy is under attack, just as peace.
There are no hidden plots, there are not any more, now, if ever there were.
The answers are there, just look, having time to do it.
Desire.
The difference is all here.
The dead are dead and hurt, those who remain, those who loved and even those who have started doing it only now.
Democracy and peace are in danger at all times but it is exactly the moment when the explosion cloud covers the entire screen that you should begin to worry.
And maybe remind that only yesterday 18 died in Baghdad, Iraq, for an attack.
That on November 12 the updated balance of the double suicide bombing in Beirut was 37 dead and 181 wounded.
And on November 7 in Burundi 198 civilians were killed and 200,000 are on the run.
That the day before in the Central African Republic there have been hundreds of deaths from the civil war.
And on October 25 in South Sudan 80 died after 18 days of conflict, 57 children among the victims.
That on October 24 in Pakistan, a suicide bomber attacked a Shiite procession and caused at least 16 deaths.
And just the day before, Nigeria, 50 died from attacks on two mosques.
That on October 23, in Afghanistan, is 23 death toll the effect of American raid on the hospital of Doctors Without Borders.
And maybe you can as well remember that on October 22, in Sweden, a young Nazi sympathizer killed a teacher and a student.
That on October 17, in Libya, a helicopter was shot down, causing 13 deaths.
And on Oct. 16 in Saudi Arabia 5 died from an attack on the mosque.
If then you will find more time you may also recall that according to the National Observatory for Human Rights in Syria there were 250 thousand deaths since the war began, including 74,000 civilians and 41,000 foreigners with 12 million displaced.
That the war in Iraq has caused more than 15 thousand civilian deaths in the last year and a half.
That in the war between Israel and Palestine (as of 2011) there were approximately 1,500 deaths (including 142 minors) for the former and almost 8,000 (including about 1,600 minors) for the latter.
And maybe that migrants died in the Mediterranean, fleeing war and poverty, in 2015 were about 3000 and that only in September 1075 have recovered the bodies of migrants along the Italian coast.
There was once a story that will be repeated.
You are about to watch, since the move is what it is, the plot is always the same.
That's why the final returns.
They can take on new extras, adding special effects and playing with the titles.
The picture will show every time the same design.
Peace and war.
Terrorism and democracy.
The leader with the largest number of followers will shout at breakneck speed, the noise of the screaming crowd will be inevitable and you will have to listen.
It works, it is a viral product, because it has already worked.
A few days of headlines and evenings on TV, ad hoc statements, more or less spontaneous controversies, more restrictive laws and new acts of force, appropriate to vulnerable enemies.
And when everything is back to normal.
Let's return to the table, to speak of gossip, football and reality shows...

Map of the ongoing conflicts in the world updated on 4 November 2015 - Photo by www.guerrenelmondo.it

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Friday, November 13, 2015

Stories about life: little ones and monsters

Stories and News No. 812

In Wallenfels, Germany, police found the dead bodies of seven infants in a home. The mother has not been found and is sought...

Little.
Seven little children.
The magnificent, potentially.
The samurai, who knows?
And the dwarfs, from a picture book to a 3D movie.
Lives, anyway.
Short, no doubt.
But who said that a story should last a hundred years to be read?
Lived.
Narrated in the cold nights of coming winter to frighten the children.
Little ones.
Who, often, know more about monsters than adults do.
Monsters...
Well, just one
Normal, potentially.
Creepy, you see now.
And unexpected, from a “good cause” spot to an early evening TV Show.
Still life.
Human, sure.
But who said that a person should have claws and sharp teeth to bite?
Devouring.
And anguishing in a cultured roundtables to frighten the adults.
Yes, adults.
Who, often, know more about monsters than children do.
But they fan pretending all came from fairytales.
Where the hero is always equal to himself, fearless figure with golden hair and crystal eyes.
White clothes, charming at his best.
Prince ready to face the ogre.
Read as well as the black shame that emerges from darkness to steal land and future.
Stories and cults.
Life.
Then it happens that the tale slips away from your hands, shattering the monitor and yet another misprint invades the quiet.
Made of moral anesthetics and institutional illusions.
So you see them.
The little ones, alone.
Fighting with the only real monster.
One of us…

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Thursday, November 12, 2015

Billionaire buys daughter diamond for $48m: thank me

Stories and News No. 811

"Blue Moon" diamond was bought by Hong Kong billionaire Joseph Lau for $ 48.5 million, one of the jewels most expensive in history, a gift for his 7 years old daughter.
The stone comes from a mine in South Africa...

Dear girl,
Thank your dad.
Please do it, honor the generous parent.
The value of the gift does not count, as even the banal thought.
The gesture matters.
Not just to donate.
The real magic is in the movement of the hand that brings the present, the frozen head, because eyes are incredibly focused on you, his soul reaching out for yours, the one and only reason for such affection.

Thank him, as I did myself yesterday evening.
Despite today and regardless of tomorrow.
Because the water that he brought me at the end of the day was all I wanted.
All that he would have drunk.
And even more.

Be thankful of this opportunity.
To receive gifts from life.
And who donated you the latter.
Your mother, yes, she.
If the daughter is a priceless jewel, who knows what assessment the father gave to his wife.
Without giving too much importance to that, though.
Because if we could really measure the weight of the creatures that we love in the wonder of the various certificates of affection, how could we demonstrate to love others as much?

Then thank the parents for every moment of silence.
With unadorned boxes and empty packaging as the belly of my sisters.
Waiting for that little.
That my father and will steal from the bad fate.
One day, another hour, a moment more.
Being able to aspire to a minimum.
Between a labored breathing and a wild hope.

Above all.
Thank those who sacrifice for your gift pieces of dreams that will never come true.
But this does not mean that we do not dream the same.
Those who, for your shining eyes before the perfect jewel, burn off, even now, their faiths.
No less perfect.
But this does not mean that it will come true.

So, thank me...

 
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Wednesday, November 11, 2015

True stories about teenage depression: I walk

Stories and News No. 810

Last night a 14 year old boy - I read with health problems, was rescued by police in Rome, Italy, as he walked alone in the fast lane...

I walk.
Even now, I walk.
Blinded by the absurd illusion of achieving the running life.
And even overcoming it.
I am the guy that disturbs the normality of the moment, where everything is permitted, as long as nothing really changes.
And I am the girl who you cannot tell of, drawing her, let alone photographing. Because then the consciousness bans everything and then dares to explain that absence.
I am the cumbersome woman, personified excess, unpleasant in appearance as in the remembrance. Because then the memory transcribes everything and then dares to explain that presence.
And I am the man, who is out of tune in the melody as in the text, that you wish to never have met.
Loved.
Just watched.
I am one of the many who walk beside, in a significant travel fragment.
Fortunately on the last row.
And for a cruel fate a few centimeters to flow to the heart and eyes.
We are images of lives that must necessarily be retouched.
Reduced or cut.
Because touching dormant emotions and thoughts is fine.
Never completely awaken.
I am the silhouette in the background, or what fills it.
And, in the din of the engines, I advance.
Often falling down.
At the very best, sometimes I stand up.
Despite this happens more and more often.
I walk, yes.
I walk, even now.
Deluded by the absurd belief.
To be able to reach the whizzing world.
And even top it.
In the meantime.
Maybe someone will free himself of the machine which he is a prisoner of.
To walk together.
And perhaps stopping to take breath…

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Friday, November 6, 2015

Bridge across the Strait of Messina and other fairy tales

Stories and News No. 809

"The bridge over the Strait of Messina will be made", Italy premier Matteo Renzi said.
I remember I heard same story from mister Berlusconi, a man who in matter of fairy tales had a great imagination.
Well, in the meantime I make my bridges here...

Bridges.
Bridges and roads.
Bridges and roads from a place to another, binding, reducing and saving time and difficulties are a lot.
At least as many as missed wishes multiplied by all the stars that have not yet fallen in the sky of the last people in the world.
You know, here we are in the order of infinity, to say the least.
Bridges.
Bridges and roads.
Bridges and roads from an island to another, binding, reducing and saving loneliness and blunders are many.
But that is not stuff to work on paper.
Damning liver and dignity for money and selling nobility to the first bidder is unnecessary.
For bridges.
For bridges and lives.
Bridges and lives from one continent to another, binding, reducing and saving stumbles and dullness are countless.
The bridge from a skin to another, where a blind man would arrive first for indisputable ability, rather than disability.
And the bridge from head to heart, which should play along.
As the drummer and bassist of a band of perfectionists who threaten death playing the best song.
There is the bridge from personal fears to obtuse selfishness, which should be crashed once and for all.
And the bridge where always the same arrive first?
Is it not time to review the departure order?
Then the billions of bridges where you travel and only you.
Me always me.
And she, nothing but her.
Is not it time to join the streets?
We have too many streets from one future to another binding, reducing and saving wasted present and cumbersome past.
Finally there is one bridge that would be enough for all the others.
From the moment you do or say anything to the next one.
Okay, it must remain, no doubt about it.
However, do not forget the suitcase of humanity.
Behind...

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Thursday, November 5, 2015

Stories of immigrants: when a father let go of son at sea

Stories and News No. 808

Recent news says that off the Greek island of Kos a man had to throw overboard the body of his six year old son to save the rest of his family.

This is the story in brief.
At the same time.
A loud cry and a feeble prayer.
Please, Dad, do not.
Throw me into the sea, Father, so that everything makes sense.
Where there should not be any one.
Where there should be none.
With your own flesh in your hands.
Ready to move without it.
In the arms of that same flesh.
Ready to do without.
Of yourself.
There is a mistake, there must be a serious one in this film.
If not, what writer would have been so blind?
Which director could have to stage such outrage?
Which producer would dare to finance this abomination?
But, more than anything else, what kind of viewers could remain silent on his comfortable chair before a so alien movie?
Yeah, it's all a matter of words, in the final analysis.
Because the protagonists, the different skin or different way of discovering the world, had never been strangers to us, but their story.
Or worse, the end of the latter.
At the same time.
Let me slip between the waves, Dad.
No, father, don’t leave me behind.
A sad whisper and a tragic scream born from the same sentiment.
A desperate and incalculable love for life.
Where you can lose everything.
To reach the goal.
And see you robbed.
Of that survived nothing.
Perhaps the time has come to speak to the projectionist.
And once and for all.
Change the film…

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Wednesday, November 4, 2015

Moral stories: Loving Armed Forces Day…

Stories and News No. 807

Greetings, my best greetings to you.
There, somewhere.
Sharing hope in a crowded room of lives and needs.
By tapping into what you never had, for yourself.
And that is the true miracle, rather than magical tears rained down from nowhere.

Sincere greetings, really.
Amazons and warriors from the white coat, with that indomitable scalpel and courageous stethoscopes saving from the flames the life that survived.
The gift of not required peace.

Best wishes to you, lonely woman.
The same for you, lonely man.
That despite the world is running in the opposite direction, you turn your back to the finish line and get down, down there.
Where slow existences are breathing with difficulty.
Where there will not be anything to win.
And an honorable defeat will be the best that might happen.
Yet you are there.
Yet you even back there the following year.

Many wishes, all I can, to you.
Eyes and ears that lend themselves to the cries remained on the table.
And the murmurs concealed below the latter.
Mythological creatures who can be so present in the lives of others.
Able to remove yourselves for others.
Available for a copy paste from the uncomfortable side of the world as if it were easy.
Yeah, as if it were easy.
Doing it and being called naive.
Deluded.
And even “gooders”.

Greetings, seriously, every greeting that you never had.
To all of you.
Doctors and nurses, teachers and activists, educators and animators.
Voluntaries or even forced.
By your inability to stop hoping.
Of change the worse story.

Today, November 4, here is your day.
For militaries and the soldiers of any army look elsewhere.
Because on this page I celebrate.
Another kind of Forces Day.
The loving ones…

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