My desire to Africa started long time ago, maybe eight years ago, moment by moment, not more, because of that first love that you never forget. Although sometimes I think it was even earlier than that, as if he had experienced before, like a pulse-memory irrational. Persecuting them. Until now, that is until, for a series of events and "coincidences" I decided to come to Africa to live in this!
Why? Everyone asks me.
For Love ... but that's another story.
hours and then I find myself faced with a choice of life that takes shape in the days that follow one another in disbelief myself in front of the force that is assuming that instead of the infinite possible ways I could go and that ... and I did not take.
But there is a thought that hammers my head every day.
My false memory annihilates me. Crowded corner of the brain where thoughts and memories and ideas and backgrounds- imaginative turns out to be completely ineffective in front of the daily reality for the simple reason of being the result of a projection and not a living.
The double-edged weapon of unknown cause that cuts off the membrane that separates a sentitodire a personal recollection.
Someone told me that "the knowledge only becomes wisdom when it becomes personal experience," and now I feel like throwing away all the stories, dialogues, reports that I've been made in ' this period of time. I feel like throwing them behind me, as for luck, symbolizing the advance compelling a new world, my world.
and take a look at this New World I wipe my feet on the streets of Maputo with lightness, as if trying not to leave no footprint on the land of red dirt and the sidewalks almost non-existent ... relics of a past colonial, so close and sad.
And how do you go from one of the seven most developed countries in the world to one that is not among the final 10? How do you make that big a jump without breaking your neck??
know how many numbers go from 7 to 157?? No ... not 150.
There are millions.
million.
Millions of souls.
And there are millions of souls who look at you with suspicion and / or curiosity while taking a walk in their streets, including their homes, getting your feet up to ankles ...
Why whites here can only get in new cars and on foot walking in the area of \u200b\u200bthe museum, away from the drains open. Away from home caged behind thick iron bars and double houses to escape the prison ladrão .
And you know what to make of here ladroes? Burn them alive! My Holy God! Put them in an old tire and so on ... a life less, a little like the time of the Inquisition but with less theology behind, I think.
And my amazement grows in knowing that the inquiries conducted in elementary-age children reveal that they too are in complete agreement: "We need their own justice because the police does not do it." And then burn 'em away these thieves of hens, DVD, television, bread, rice and cried ...
But who would have thought so quiet that people could express such cruelty?
And then I I ask WHY?
But I find no answer.
Yes, because I'm sick of sociological and historical analysis or psycho-sociological or historical and psychological.
There is something rotten in humanity anywhere in the world you are, or what the reason.
My day starts at 8 o'clock in the morning when I wake up quietly after a night of love, I'm preparing, loading the computer and go back to work.
I leave the green door leaving behind houses as white as snow, nestled in a row and quiet. Machines of € 25 000 are parked waiting for someone to put in motion to go passeggio.Un dog barks every time step, a cocker hysterical and bored. The guard kindly opened my door and I to fly away to my day.
through the street and a slight drizzle wet clothes, I stop and wait for the first chapa that goes and puts the yellow arrow, staggering like a drunk too much oil that spits out black smoke as a lung cancer . The chapa fffffrena loudly and croic croic stops opened the door of purgatory.
All inside the firm, attached back to back, belly to belly, stuck together by a common destiny.
Come on.
The chapa coughing, moaning and limping again, like every day, every month, every year until the collapse.
Yet it is all so human in there.
0 comments:
Post a Comment