The Dangerous Game of Appearances

 

Facts and appearances

The law of survival forces us, so often, to do things in which we do not recognize ourselves. Sometimes, we are drinking our coffee, and we judge what comes to us that is sensory and we make analogies and base our impressions on appearance. And we even convince ourselves that absolute truth plays with our truth. 

 And we're right. We are that spectacle. It's so much easier to judge the others.

Why think about it anymore? I said it, it's said. That man is a psychopath, that father is a Christ, the upstairs neighbor hits really badly. And so many other judgments. And we come to the conclusion, or to these conclusions, when we take the pyretic theory that outsiders evaluate problems much better. Pepper in other people's asses is refreshment in ours, right? Because.

The black man runs with a 6-month-old baby on his lap. There is no analysis of feelings or reason. There is a fact. He ran here, the baby looked like a coffee wrap that we bought in Brazil, we didn't see the face of the little being, but we can guess that he was bad, or innocent. 

He almost fell on top of us, that aggressive, tall man. It almost hurt us. We wanted to understand the situation, but there was no time.And we continue to play the monopoly, in that garden, now calm again, were it not for the buzzing of the flies and the ones we make during the game.I want to buy Rossio. Will the bank lend me money? Ahead.

The baby, we learned the next day, was his. He had a Bic pen cap in his windpipe asphyxiating him. The father who thought he was losing him overcame the limits of himself and jumped over a very high wall, even he didn't believe it yet, more than two meters and he didn't go backwards. After all, he wasn't stealing the baby. But to go against the life that robbed him of the motivation to live. At that moment he saw no obstacles. He saw only one health center on the other side of the houses.

They found him in a pitiful state. The head had been cut off. You could tell who he was from the sign in his office and even from the smell of pipe that infected the air, mixed now with the nauseating smell of blood. He had taken 79 axes. Who will tell them? The forensic expert? The cop? Was he involved with the mafia? Or against the mafia? 

For the fact was, that he lay in the chair where he had given so many orders, where he had hired so many people, and where, of course, he had fired him too. Opinions were divided: he was a good man against him, he was a scoundrel. He had favored scoundrels and unemployed humble men who depended on the wages he paid to support his family. To bring bread to a table. But so many people were crying outside the office where his body was a faded mass of red and blue rags. - We're really nothing. Except for this blood and what they say about us. Who we were. Because. Because. My opinion didn't count for anything. It was irrelevant. The dead man was still there, quiet and unrecognizable. The right hand did not appear.

And on the other side of town, an anonymous man turned himself in to the police, desperately calm. The bloodied axe was his last identity card. All his life he had been a peacemaker. A life that was no longer life. He had had to fight so hard to conquer what he had, but today he realized that he had nothing. Not even you. When he, the devil, began to slaughter him, to take away what was rightfully his, he thought it would be a matter of time before he saw that what he was doing was unjust and remedied the situation by apologizing.... 

Sorry, yes, I believed so. He had made his life a living hell for the past 3 months. He had robbed her of her light, her water, her health, her food, her will to live. Even the wife he loved. 

He felt like a human rag. And in an impetus (accumulated rage of almost 15 years) he had picked up the axe. And he had entered the office of the son of his great friend, who had been dead for some time. And he had forgotten everything else. Because he, too, was dead. There's a lot.

The stew had the taste of the old days. She remembered very well her mother around the stove, in her apron, always the same apron, calling:

- Come on, lunch is taken.

A table that is always plentiful, a glacier that is always full. A comfortable home. A nice car at the door. And your ambition to travel. No limits.

He easily remembered his friends, the good times. But it was all already and only a memory. His wallet of old documents was no longer his own, but that of a man who had left him some notes with it and had advised him to emigrate.

His old cap belonged to a stowaway. From an illegal mulatto in the country. His suspenders those of his old father.  Long deceased. And would the mother still be alive? Would she wear, even though she was full of wrinkles and white hair, the same apron to make those stews?

Huge eczema was growing on his arms. The scalp is injured. Deep marks; deeper than the physical scars that flooded his soul. I was hungry. So hungry. It had left its territorial limit more than 20 years ago. And all he knew was that he was hungry. The hunger he felt hurt him. He wanted to know about the poetry, the coffees or the cigarettes he had once smoked. He wanted to know about the playful spaces where he used to entertain his spirit. I just wanted a bowl of soup. Hot. It could even be made of stone. The face of his sweet mother came to his mind.

-Mother, I'm hungry for your stews. I'm so hungry.

He entered the restaurant, asking for charity in the eyes that had a soul. But there were no soulful eyes. Only indifferent faces that fled from him. Afraid of being read by his. When he tried to approach the owner of the restaurant who he deduced to be the fat and wealthy man inside the counter, he was shot. And he died, there, amidst screams and full stomachs. He also starved to death. And the hunger of the others who were there with a plate in front of them also died, along with his hunger, with the screams he had given. He had died, starving.

One dies and lives in unimaginable contexts.

No, it's not easy to survive. Nor do you choose. And above all, we are animals of impulses. Reason is a tool conquered over time. It can be reused when it suits it. Truths are lying matters if analyzed out of context, out of time, out of frame.

God, give me a life with truth recognized in the eyes of all. 

Invent clear days and serene feelings. It invents another planet, other, more human beings. And by the way, recycle me. Do not allow frivolity and prejudices programmed by the wrong forces to stand in my way and make empathy and expanded awareness flourish in the collective. It expands this to the class of journalism and communication. That lies and fake news promote what we need to abolish