I forgot I write for the pure pleasure of revealing the corners of my mind—to peel the onion, as some would say. Words today seem not enough. Why? Then I remembered that in today's society, the media has exhausted the meaning of words for their useless fights, using recycled ideologies to beat the other side of the spectrum, forging new synthetic meanings, changing the context, dehumanizing and isolating other men. Some still try to paint History with their own colorful palettes.
Anybody excited or bored can find any type of content on video and audio and cope with their feelings with it. Do you want to feel you are right? Watch this 14:00-minute video. Do you want to ridicule the other political party? No problem; check out this montage about destroying this or that political character.
I am starting to lose interest in video format. Especially now, with AI, videos are not something you can trust to reveal facts. Their flashy tempo now gives me headaches, and my sight and perception are desensitized and ask to close the curtains. I need a visual bench that lulls my mental state.
I wonder, perhaps we are close to the death of the homo videns. I do not want to spend my minutes watching a video that, in 5 more minutes, will be replaced with another useless partisan message. I want something I can recall with pleasure, with calm. I want to break bread and let the crumbs fall; I want to count stars or peruse the hues of grains of sand.
I need to return to the roots, where everything was simpler and had its charm. I need to take advantage of this moment. I still have a clear mind and can differentiate lies from the truth—even my own. There are a lot of lies, by the way, lies told to oneself and to others. It is just that people don't want to face themselves in their purest form. I understand many do not want to see the devil in the eyes.
Men and women fear the truth, and it is not about sharing what they believe is the truth but more about being exposed to the gossip in another corner of the room. The clear mind is no longer impossible to reach; on the contrary, it is people who refuse to see the red inside, their boiling innards of a living creature, the ones who exclude themselves from that passion. They prefer to keep pointing out to others, mocking and playing the bully while knowing they are playing to be one.
Men and women are scared of expressing their thoughts, not in the way Stendahl did, but in how a commoner describes trees, flowers, and apples. Now, everybody seems unable to even yell into their own pillow.
We are losing the ability to scrutinize ourselves and recognize that we are not our marketed images but a shadow surrounded by little pulsars that have lost the ability to reveal themselves.
Perhaps writing can glim our souls. Let the layers covering our beings fall off and reveal the wounded creatures we have forgotten we are.
