The prisoner wants to be free, wants to let loose of what he has inside. His doing so is up to no one, but everybody is there and he knows that someone may be watching him. It would hurt deep inside if it were not for the impatience, for time awareness, where he finds every one of his actions subject to rationality. However, given the structure of a piece of matter that contains countless other matters and where disgrace is constant, he would have to defeat so much rationality in order to break free, without looking for any way out, with no crutches.
He reasons structures, reading poetry while renal patients have no means to survive a couple of weeks more; the first, second and third piano lessons while more and more children starve to death; the Morente book while five males rape a female of the human species. And an agnostic and a nihilist talking to nine and twelve year-olds, and a stoic one talking to an old widower who lost his children to war, and Giordano’s futuristic story with “other suns”. Find some hopelessness fighting its opposite, those battles that happen inside the heart, or in the middle of your mind, or during miasma’s traffic itself. Great fear and great pain make a great confession possible, but the confessor is drunk, and the friend who listens helps with his silence but cannot point forward.
The pit is the pit, and it seems that no one is up there to lend a hand and contribute with his strength of heart and mind. What is left is what you get, nails, eyes fixed in what you have caught sight of, half a dream. Half a reality, the trail of a brief death that initiates a new life, where there was darkness and things followed a course that had not been established by whoever was walking it, that old little school with broken, poorly built worn-out chairs, where they used to teach about predetermination so well and the clothes needed to say what anyone could, can, and will be able to say about their temporary story anywhere in the world, and repeating it till ears, lips and fingers writing what they heard are fed up; however, they may never be sung again in their most exact and unique vibration.
Space becomes small, or it becomes gigantic, a wide range of its possibilities and its image, or a kaleidoscope, or the bottom of a stream, or Ruanda’s pipes, or a piano with 101 keys. A shadow crossing space while it cannot be touched, it does not even exist actually, but it brings forth a doubt regarding its existence as if it would set free an expedition to hunt it down, thus setting in motion something towards a direction, whether they get it or not, something that was not there until it could be conceived, and which could be called imagination, or the result of an unknown desire, which could be interpreted in the light of well-known nature’s laws that rule over he who undertakes an undertaking.
The other school, which we also breathe, the school of “anyway”, tears us up to settle its concepts. It breaks the mouth and then shows a smile, stabs the heart and rots it in order to sow there the birth of a purer although more inaccessible one; it admits failure to mock all success, and imprisons anyone who plays with his freedom, and discloses its secrets to him, it draws its games and makes him believe in an end, after subjecting him to one principle and another, as he sees his flesh turn pale, the weight going down, everything going down until reaching the bottom of the abyss, from where and with which the essence of what he will swear to never accept is made – even though there is no never -, even though he must live and understand it, to show him the wonderful secret of true knowledge – not the one of wisdom – which implies skipping and staying, goes way beyond them, and goes way before them, and goes way during them, and so, unwillingly, with simple words, purely simple, it also outlines consistency, continuity, as chains that do not change overnight but which could, however, break someday, a day that may, however, never come, a day that might be today.