It’s the morninger conference in the Aztec nation and, as the sun hits the walls of the National Palace, dozens of reporters take a seat. They suffer a heavy hangover; information absorbed in excess the day prior still ravages their minds: incapable of escaping. Defeated, they try to maintain their intoxicated state by absorbing even more. To them, the myth of sisyphus is not an absurdist fiction, but an honest reflexion of their realty.
Fat cats parade in front of a dark-red wall. To many an impeccable image of their partizan membership, to others, it’s merely a wall painted blood red.
They move their lips, but seem to say nothing of consequence, they don’t explain or debunk, they merely instruct. With their minds; it seems like they want to derail they sun’s path in their favor.
After the morning shock, the heart and lungs of the country recover. Slowly and awkwardly, millions transport themselves from one place to another, and operate the country’s vital organs; to control the limbs as they desire.
It’s midday in the country, and street dogs howl after gunshots are fired; malice is deafening, and men in white, previously in green, previously in brown, and previously in blue, seem incapable of making themselves standout among all the noise. Their mandate, which seemed devine at the beginning, is questioned more every day.
In the big cities, millions unknow the collective reality. Their worries are different, and at times opposed, to the worries of those in the mountains and the countryside. They claim to be colorblind, but it’s evident that the fallacies they consume have more likely made them hypersensitive to color; they claim to ignore it so that they can never question themselves.
The collective psyche is dumbfounded, the hangover is not exclusive to reporters, and to many the sisyphean reflexion is also truthful. Hours go by, and as we’re seemingly incapable of understanding, we consume, more and more, that which appears benign on the exterior. Fats and sugars; liars and disqualifiers; smog and alcoholic beverages
It’s nightime in the republic, and from the north American guards look down at us, a look we shift over to the Guatemalan guards; we believe we belong to the team that speaks in the strange language. The thick heat of the day has melted our minds, and like in another one of Camus’ fictions, we walk along an infinite beach, holding a revolver with our hand, never asking ourselves why it is that we wish to murder.
From households screams are silenced, and down the streets nervous beings; tense beings walk. Never certain whether they’ll fall on a broken sidewalk or into tragedies anew. They don’t belong in the streets, but they don’t belong to their home.
Cold sweat falls down the spines of those uniformed in ill fitting suits; ill obtained suits. Which, in the best of cases, question themselves as to where their authority originates. Patrolling neighborhoods from luxurious cruisers, none of them really know what is true or false; just what is told to them over the radio from the headquarters, which seem to be blind no matter how many cameras and spies they have.
Maddened doctors strike down, victim over victim, without knowing the real cause of death; if it was because of the pandemic, because of chronic disease, or because of violence. They cover, one by one, plastic bags with godforsaken bodies. They take their face away, they take their story away; they take their humanity away. Only a mass and it’s volume remain, but not for long.
It’s morning in Mexico, and as the sun hits the walls of the national palace, millions of viewers pay attention. They suffer from a heavy hangover; tragedies absorbed in excess the day prior still ravage their minds: incapable of escaping. Defeated, they drug themselves once again with information hoping for that hopeful, happy high. With time they’ve become resistant to the drug, but they keep trying to maintain their state of intoxication absorbing even more. To us, lifting the boulder up the hill, hoping that it stays on top of the hill, is a daily occurrence.