Short Century

Moving from the short century to the dead century, dead of passions and hopes, of nerve-wracking expectations for a future of fiery suns and of well-being, a palpable sign of progress. A sign of history traversing obligatory passages trampling over defenceless bodies and arousing pride and faith in heroes, who unique in the world ignore selfishness and contempt for truth. They are great men whose mission is the brightening of the gloomy horizon and the support of curved backs and the calloused, greasy hands of the workers. They gather in smoky rooms, with the air impregnated with carnal passions distracting from the black soot of factories and neighbourhoods. A mission without a messiah, of faith close to the soul purified of every animal instinct. A warm embrace of comrades, friends, queens with bare breasts and weapons hidden under their skirts, ready for battle. Is God dead and the heroes dead with them? Narrative, storytelling, are the soul of the world. They are mazes of thoughts and feelings that create the outer world. Narrative dictates meaning, the heartfelt feeling of others' pain and human stories. Without narration there is neither pity nor illusion, only an empty chase of banality and self-pity. Would this be the meaning of human evolution? Raw life without a prism of light to deceive perception and give meaning to the woody slag, to the concrete shores, and the dreams of those who dream of the future?