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Pollution kills

Stories and News No. 1037

According to the most comprehensive global analysis to date, every year, at least nine million people are killed by pollution, and it costs us trillions of dollars, endangering the survival of human societies.
A little paradoxical contradiction, don’t you think? A phenomenon that is economically and at the same time humanly disadvantageous for all, yet neglected.
As if we could not see where the dirt, the refusal, the wrong word is, despite being exactly in front of our eyes, hidden in the sheet that contains the story about us...

Jack is a small creature.
Small as a letter, although he often feels bigger than it is, where he screams his own arrogance with each drop of ink passing through himself.
Mario thinks to be modern.

Because he is so, until proven otherwise.
He lives today before tomorrow, as if tomorrow was nothing more than today you are writing… yesterday.
Yes it is, forgetting about what yesterday was, he only cares about the current page, at best. At worst, the single, tiny portion of the row hosting him.
Exactly, hosting, but he would say he occupies, as ‘mine’, ‘only mine’, ‘forbidden to those who approach’, ‘do not dare to break the sacred space between letter and letter’.
Social grammar must be respected, because it’s what gives order and security to the tale.

If you’re looking for the meaning and, above all, the moral, search elsewhere.
Because that's how people like Mario do.
The accountability is always to those up there, the supposed divinities with the pen or the keyboard in their hands.
Mario cares about the shape of things, because he has always lived a perennially two-dimensional existence, self-fulfilling himself by not worrying about the consequences of common presence in the global text.
That’s why, at each instant, it is prodigal that what contains and guides his path between paragraph and paragraph keeps the splendor of the very first day.
This is his job, the only purpose he pursues.
Mario shrinks words as if they were jewels, seeing the latter as something different from other, conventional sets of letters.
That's how the car shines like a mirror, and the windscreen is perfectly free from dust, the seats also glitter at night, and the dashboard steals the scene to the firmament.
He does the same with the air conditioner and the boiler, the cellphone screen and every wonderful word that has made his life full.
Of words.
Because that’s what Mario is.
It's like a small letter, condemned with others like him to be part of a speech he ignores from beginning to ending, which can be virtuous or crazy, yet he is there.
Every day he gets up from the ugly dictionary which he has prematurely buried himself in, and he joins the others, to reach the period moved by comfortable inertia.
Sometimes, though, Mario makes a dream, which can be a nightmare too, it depends on the degree of freedom of his fantasy.
So he imagines to be something better than just one letter, and even a word.
For a fleeting instant, he sees the poor page, the only one that really supports everyone, almost destroyed by the enormous amount of stupid delusions which we are polluting it with.
It’s the right moment when each one of us has got the chance to leave our march to nothing.
One letter out is enough and every word, rich and powerful, fearful and dangerous, will become evident in everyone's eyes.
As the wrong one…

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