VIOLENCE AS DESTINY

 

The silence of the night weighs on the houses, crumpling them, making them survivors. The synoptic eye watches over the wheat-colored corridors on the walls where the notion of existence is lost. The sounds of silence crackle the swollen walls of water, melt the ice and set fire to the seemingly touristy scenery. The world has become a ball of fire, where the only thing that remains is the synoptic eye that watches over the spaces, destroying the barriers, to amplify the sound and the vision upon the initiates. They walked one day over the jungle towns, innocent. The urban tribes have been instrumentalized, and they are now chemically clogged puppets who fall asleep and wake up at three in the morning and walk to the bathroom, deposit the chemical waters of terror and anxiety and return to their beds, They look at themselves in the mirror and escape their own gaze and wander with their ears on the walls, their hands in the shape of a funnel, trying to extract more about the synthetic terror fertilized in the jungles already sown by the man anguished by enigmas. The terror pill is sold outside the cash register, away from the watchful eyes and the sound of silence is dressed up in familiar noises to propagate and grow that vertigo that takes over the world while it sleeps. Extras and protagonists dress up characters in each other's films. They bring yellow smiles, tired eyes and sick ears. At the end of the day, they seek a scene of peace, hopelessly lost, hopelessly frustrated because their world has been violated, they have broken through rusty and scattered insects through the auricular labyrinths. At times the silence is filled with the whirring of mosquitoes, tortuously amplified to destroy the spaces of peace that compromise human dreams. 

The commonplaces of boredom and rootedness predominate. You are programmed to accept no matter what, no how, no matter when. Passively accept. Mutants dressed as humans, dressed alike, emptied of positive content, the voice of the sound of humanity's absence reigns. They wander with legs and arms, with exhausted thoughts and wills, they push each other to obey. Where have their desires and dreams been dumped?

The initiates walk into their bodies, inhabiting them, so that they can see the extensive fields of hay and wheat, so that they dare to awaken their senses, their sense of smell, so that they dare to look at what they have forgotten, when they arrange in the chair of the rooms the same garments that make them human-like. They make us wake up inside the dream and make us see the schizophrenia of the scenarios and their own acts, stripped of empathy. And in the dark corners of the human jungle, they see corpses that push themselves towards the annihilation of the madness that pursues them, the doses of poison they swallow do not allow them to see that they are mutants in search of hope. And we enter these jungles as if we entered another era, another world, where they fuck against the graffiti walls, where they are impregnated with the crafts of robotization, subjecting themselves and others to the primitive abuses of oblivion, of anosmia of the smells of childhood, devoid of their humanity. The initiates enter their tired bodies and try to mend the fractures of their lack of civility, of their ineffectiveness in the construction of dreams. The viscera have become addicted to nonsense and have clung like trees to numbness, as if everything were like that, since fractals entered the course of the ages. They do not speak, they only know how to keep silent about the violence of which they are silent and cooperating witnesses and victims, such is the abduction of the self. They have replaced tomorrows with yesterdays and live there, lost, like the insects surrounding the lamps, dazzled by the becoming they feel as a blow to the physical and mental bodies. They are slaves to these apocalyptic visions of the end times and they obligate themselves, if in front of the mirror, to see themselves as insurgents and visionaries of a decrepitude that blinds them and keeps them addicted to the system. The initiates raise their arms and wills to them, so that they can choose the path of construction. They do not give up on them, nor do they seem to give up on those who keep them in this hallucination of incoherence and nonsense. One day, the morning will allocate their bodies to a mass grave, if they persist in, like bats, wading through the dawns of chosen violence.