Under the sun, I watch people running around with wireless headphones and I think: it's about launching ourselves into our own space by blocking the madding crowd. It is about accessing our interiority without interference and with our music, like heartbeats.
Running towards ourselves.
The outside world is often aggressive.
Freedom is being able to flee from the world.
Also, sometimes freedom is being able to go out into the outside world whenever and however you want.
Don't build barriers for me.
"Don't touch my arm. It bothers me to be touched by the arm," wrote Fernando Pessoa. And then he says. "Don't come to me with conclusions... if you have the truth, keep it to yourself..."
I have seen and see every day a cemetery populated by the dead who were carried by the arm all their lives until death.
It is the graveyard of the dead who are alive and guarded all the time.
There are no dogmas, no absolute certainties.
Don't take us by the arm.
There is a point, and this is a very personal one, in which one asks: Why don't you shut up!
There is no silence in the campaigns, as if there were a horror vacui, a panic in the void.
But it's all overrun with permanent speakers.
"Don't bother me, for God's sake!" says Pessoa and so many times we feel the same way.
There is a lot of noise, except today, an ephemeral truce, strictly speaking, partial of the talk and the political show.
Freedom is interiority and exteriority according to the choice of each one at the time.
The paths of freedom were reconfigured under the extensive lockdown of the pandemic.
Hours, days, months under a regime of closure do not pass in vain for the personal or collective unconscious.
Something linked to the drive to go out and the impossibility of going out was incubated in the times of the plague.
I have seen lonely people crying at the death of loved ones, for not being able to accompany them to the final resting place.
I have seen and experienced the impossibility of approaching births of the same blood because a trickster president said that everything was forbiddenor even what you would do anyway.
I have seen the burning blood of lovers repressed and suffer separations ordered by the power that did not fulfill what it commanded.
The fact is that all the well-founded resentments were whipped up by official nonsense: the assertion that in exchange for efficient vaccines they would have to take the glaciers of the south, the insistence on importing the Russian vaccine not recognized by countless countries, the persecution of people who only sought to take a breath without approaching anyone, such as the famous rower persecuted as a terrorist or that woman who went to Palermo with her armchair and the They contested like a monster.
First lady Fabiola Yáñez's birthday at the Quinta de Olivos when social gatherings were prohibited.
The multiplication of deaths to the point of paroxysm, the violation of all the rules of the game at the privileged festival of Olivos, the massive immoral episode of the VIP vaccination, capitalized then by many who now give moral lessons as if they were not as they are; Immoral.
Those walls that confined everyone propelled deep into a search that had an impact on the political reconfiguration of Argentina, which is not necessarily beneficial.
We don't know what will happen.
That is the only certainty.
The term "freedom" reached a reverberation that became political, and at the same time it was dressed up in crazy spectacles, but no less attractive for many.
The other element linked, perhaps indirectly, to the pandemic is the rhetorical sleight of hand by which a carnival triumphs, an efficient masking, by which political protagonism operates by separating the real from the promised.
There is a certain infatuation with nonsense. And recklessness too.
Foolishness is sometimes only the volcanic eruption of the most secret thoughts that pierce the censorships of political correctness, and this institutes collective enthusiasms that seem inexplicable from reason.
There is a widespread phenomenon of political campaigns that have already concluded and that is the siren song.
Every candidate takes up his chant to hypnotize voters.
There is a crucial question: What do sirens sing?
What they sing is not what they are. It's the spectacle of what they exhibit, not what there is.
However, no song completely conceals the whole truth.
There are unsolicited confessions from the candidates. Failures in discourse, sometimes driven by their surroundings or by themselves.
In those lapses dwells the truth.
The following equation could be affirmed: the greater the number of failures, lapses and discursive weaknesses, the greater the evidence of what the mermaids intend to cover up under their choreographed song.
The one that fails the least is the least credible: it's a hypothesis.
In any case: don't take us by the arm. Not politicians, not our pressure-pushing environments intentionally or unintentionally, not our teachers or professors, not anyone.
We are alone. But not confined by outside authorities.
In front of the darkroom we are alone.
And that's the good news.
It is the secret of the vow that is its greatest wisdom.
In the secret lies the truth.
It is confidentiality, secrecy, secrecy, that is the deepest root of democracy.
For it is inner freedom that guarantees the pursuit of general freedom.
We are what we are to the interior of the individual soul, and also the opposite. Alone and multitudinous.
This is because all identity is profound.
Diverse in itself.
Unless we are shipwrecked in perennial superficiality.
Or in ignorance