From what one can see, it’s chronic. The doctors said we’ll have to live with the crisis until the end. Therefore, we need palliatives to alleviate the symptoms and keep us strong so we don’t fall ill again.
It’s chronic, the ailment of those who report their most intimate news as art. The doctors, dungeons of academies, study and prescribe but don’t get infected. And the palliative is the simplest pleasure one can extract from the harshness of life. An escape, an adventure, a breeze. It’s chronic because it’s an account and updates at every corner. It’s chronic because it doesn’t rhyme, and when it rhymes, it doesn’t matter. At least not more than the tragedy of routine. It’s almost like a newspaper, a diary. One dies of it, and that’s why one lives.
Living like the nine o’clock soap opera mocks the news that precedes it. Living like someone who decides to say they don’t care about the price of hours. The disease advances every time we answer “fine” to the nonchalant “how are you?” of the demagogues. But it’s not just revolt that stamps the fevered face of those who are contaminated. We also celebrate reality in convulsion, like those who don’t rely on depressions and nostalgias. Perhaps, we are the ones who celebrate the city’s ruptures in the most concrete terror of every blessed day. It’s the palliative, an antipyretic, joy. With it, a barricade in flames is extinguished in a future of rebellions, but it rebels with it in the present extreme cold of agonies. An escape, an adventure, a breeze. The grand allegory.
We respond poorly to medication because we did not create the disease. Those who created it remain immune and immune to its malignant character. The chronicle of the classes is its consciousness, and the most common symptom is the vigor of poetry. A sharp spellbinding word that, abstract, deals with the invisible broth of life. Fragments, skeleton, concrete, armed with symbols, forms, and fantasy. The singular communalizes the harmony of the battlefields of existence, more or less in the minority. A body that vibrates its flags, heraldic and semiotically raises politics. Like a whole that moves purely by the harmony of intuitions, by the signs of time, like understood words.
There’s magic in the verse of the prescription that bypasses the logic of contraindication. An enchantment that seizes us and begins to shine in our agony. When the crisis strikes us again, we conjure the spell in the word. When the spell disappears, there must remain in the word the path. Always remembering to be a healer, for it is in the enchanted that death ends. Marked on the ground, like a key and portal, the drawn point that announces us, points to everyone, loud and clear, that calamity doesn’t silence the magic.
If there’s no cure, let madness endure as long as the world turns for the sane, and let the sane never know how to deal with our complex nature. Let us be coaches, let us be the risks of our own difference. In a world that revolves around patterns, let us be the altered presence. For when we enchant ourselves in a disenchanted world, giving reason to madness, in this bewildered world, we ruin the foundations of a hegemony that still doesn’t know but agonizes choked with its own tail.