Attack

"They increasingly resort to silence, in the face of the noise of others, of that majority who are not seeking any awareness, but simply not to feel alone in that noise. It could not even be said that they blush when exposed, because precisely the majority who generate the noise feel identified with them in their shame and insolence. Of course, insolence causes words and meanings to be stolen, and what was irreverent and revolutionary simply becomes ordinarily harmful to life and humanity itself. Of course, silence is kept far from everyone. Is it unfair? Is it comfortable? The truth is, they, the intellectuals, have already been banished and forgotten, and surely there is another place in the world where we can think and speak. Not shout. Not an attack.  - You drive me crazy, love. And he laughed when he read that word written by her, because in reality, she, that idyll made into a woman in those times, represents today that insane attitude against him. Yes, it was horrible to say, but many referred to her as that crazy woman who could only throw a fit, without knowing why. Perhaps because of the great love he felt for her, and because she couldn't feel it back. Or because he simply converted her and left her as an affair, like someone casting a spell on someone. That curse.

Amidst the noise, it's challenging to find a common thread to say something other than a defense or a counterattack. Why? Because of the very desire of those who wield that power to maintain it, and the same desire of those close to obtaining it. In any case, as humans, without losing that optimism, we must think about those who, beyond power, see a force for resistance and true emancipation in the community. In humanity and in life.  I enjoyed listening to her. How her lips savored every word, and a description of an ingredient told not only a story but also the full delicacy of reality, of what it felt like and what it could end up being in some of the sensations men dream about when they kiss a woman's lips and breasts. She knew it. She smiled, and she looked at him with a certain flirtatiousness. Sometimes with fear. Other times, without a doubt (and more so when together, naked, they made love on that mountain far from everything and everyone), with the lust that only she, the creator, could feel. Afterward, she described it with her words, rather than with her paintbrush, of how I traveled through her and all her worlds, through her body.

That may be why the readings of others are more useful than the first words, and even more so in items where noise and attack triumph in popularity. Maybe then he'll talk to himself. And write for himself. Is a human truly understood by their peers? Does a peer even exist? The fundamental questions remain unanswered, mainly. Although in the minority, there are distant places that are fortunately far from the attacks, but very close to human consciousness. So close that, despite everything, sometimes ideas escape, stirring up the minds and bothering those who make that noise. It was an April thunderstorm. He hadn't felt one in a while, but it was part of the brutal departure from winter, accepting its no longer existence. He, like no one else, endured and hid his loneliness in the winter; spring laid it bare, in a certain way. So much so that he almost always ended up with a lover during those months, until winter came again and left him alone. But happy in the face of all that could be called his own demons. His intimate struggles and adventures in the mountains.

Noise is sometimes so ambiguous that it cancels itself out. This cancellation is not only due to the opposing frequencies but also due to the contradictory nature of words, which, without argument, simply cancel each other out. And silence, to the individual during the mass, frightens him because it makes him realize he is alone, forces him to face his thoughts, and reveals that simple fact that is his escape from any responsibility, by seeking to blame others. Also, at that moment, one recognizes others, and recognizing them as different makes one momentarily ignore who one appears to be. It is the individual without their selfishness who looks in the mirror in the morning. The shadow in the night, with fear. That self-attack.  He was surprised to read that book, because on several occasions, he knew what was happening. Could it be that he had already read it and didn't remember? No. Something so long and dense would be recognizable, and that literary déjà vu was part of his madness, as much as that déjà vu with his lovers, whom he was tired of accumulating. She had noticed. That was why he was inspired, why he had managed to create those melodies, and why, whether he wanted to or not, she couldn't let this man be exclusive to her. His lovers, his lovers, and all those tragic and wonderful stories inspired her."