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Plastic age

Stories and News No. 1171
Recent research has found that plastic pollution contaminates the earth's fossils with exponential growth since 1945.
As a result, after the Bronze and Iron Age, scientists suggest to define the current period in which we live as the Plastic Age.
That's why this is just another story, but a plastic one.
Once upon a time, there was a world of plastic. I mean our planet, but you may pretend it's someone else's.
On the other hand, that’s the most common human habit, nowadays. I’m talking about the one that sees us punctually devoted to pass all our others.
However, what’s the problem?
This is a plastic tale, so the life we have built in it, as well the inhabitants we’ve become.
Plastic citizens, with all the advantages.
Because the inhabitants of plastic like to bend, to genuflect before the strong chief on duty.
Never breaking is considered a good thing, even if it’s a shame to not break up in pieces for good, from time to time.
While broken we can rebuild, maybe reinvent ourselves.
We could still change and improve.
The best hope is to survive, without ever aspiring to anything more.
Nevertheless, the real problem of plastic humanity is to see others’ life as plastic stuff in general.
We get drunk and replete without restraint and then we could wash our conscience by recycling.
However, not all plastic creatures have surrendered to that, you know?
Many, most, have not signed for this.
This is what they say at the very beginning of the journey and it’s what they have dreamed too many times between tears in a corner of their own life and a mad scream in the darkness of the room.
To them surviving could be a necessity, perhaps the only chance, but never a free choice.
They don’t bow before destiny and often, after a shipwreck, increase their weight beyond nature by embracing each another, going down relentlessly at the bottom of the sea, instead of floating like the lucky bathers who steal the sun from the sky without deserving it.
Because there are many kinds of plastic, and those who find it in the flowing blood and in the air that flows in the lungs, without ever having wanted it, they prefer rather to melt like plastic in the presence of that same sun.
Everything but believing that the increasing heat of its rays is something normal.
Anyway, don't worry. I’m not so naive to believe that a plastic story could change things.
Especially in a society where the rhythm of mutual love and of every feeling that is able to unite us is marked by plastic hearts. Furthermore, if the main organ that makes us alive is such, as well will be brain and soul.
We communicate emotions and thoughts with plastic words. So, everything may be said and taken back within a minute, recycled the next day and a moment later mixed with every kind of nothing as if it were something.
Because this is the deception from plastic and those who are made of it.
It can become anything, just using the right color and the most fashionable shape. Those who, penalized at birth, or lacking sufficient wealth, cannot afford such winning combinations.
On the other hand, the entertainment world will always need new extras and as well plastic spectators.
They cost little, often nothing, and if they do not do the required work, they are easily replaceable.
The coordinates to reach them are out there, or there behind, in the market below, sheltered from the equally plastic surface of sticky social networks. And it takes little to hire them. It is enough to know how to conceive light sentences, elementary phrases and extremely simple thoughts that even a puppet could share them.
I mean plastic slogans in which nothing is serious, nothing is real, or true, but it seems so. And you can make them yours, to share them with peers and shout with impunity in the face of those you hate, regardless of whether the hatred is founded or not.
Well, this is a story that has no happy ending, I'm sorry about that.
The past fairy tales, like humans made of flesh, they aged, perished and nourished the earth to become other stories, perhaps better inside the memories and in the lives of others.
In those like this one the ending moral is that in the morning, after the last page, one and only one thing will really survive.

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