When the hands of two people meet, their emotions change and turn them into a pair of dahlias and small river stones. Lips and glances overlap. They succumb to everything that seems obvious. People scream when they see them kissing in public spaces, some with envy and others with suspicion.
Life was made for intense emotions, but crowds do not multiply emotions. All those heads, all those bodies watching at the same time a television, their cell phones and the news of the day, are not equivalent to an overflowing emotion. The eloquence of the sea, the terribleness of typhoid are nothing but weapons of mass propulsion to drive the seas away from the people. Dictatorships are the disease of today, of yesterday, and of the present.
The shy kiss, the kiss that is given in secret is a cure against fascism. The clouds that disperse and form with their swaying a mound of elemental individuals are the perfect photograph for those who feel lonely. Loneliness is not the opposite of the crowd, but the crowd imposes loneliness as an ordeal, as a punishment for being born a person.
When I walk the streets of my neighborhood you can feel the scent and the fear of the crowd of inflation, war, disease and all the new things that the future holds. Dystopias present themselves in the form of gossip among ladies, and among competition among males. The crowd is the idea and the whirlwind of the intersections that form between the sidewalk and the cracks made by the roots of the trees. Who would say that everything is an old symptom on the tip of the toe and with that we have for someone to decide to establish fascism.
The crowd and the people numb their ailments with small doses of stem cells. The clinics are full of people waiting for a transfusion. Camellias and jasmines are an irremediable cure against melancholy but people don't know it. No one knows how we came to know so much and how we came to ignore so much. Comets tear the sky and destroy everything in their path. Just yesterday the capacity for astonishment was destroyed, but today the toothache could well be destroyed. How many would go out to celebrate the death of a beetle looking at the sun? How many would roll with its body in the sewers of the city? And what about those who shout in the middle of the street announcing a future that seems almost impossible.
Bring a cup and break it on the walls of the nobles. Lynch the landowner and drink his blood, you angry crowds, walking scalps and sleeping beauties. Or do I mean walking beauties and sleeping knights?