Sophistry

"There are those who passionately seek to carry out projects for unity, and, through their very humanity, despite mistrust, undertake others, intertwining them. When do humans who think holistically, like all of humanity, with all its dimensions and scales, ever finish? Never. And perhaps that is why there is neither serenity nor calm, and why we dwell on absurd things, because of those who, out of simple jealousy, hate the freedom and conscience of those who allow them the will to be petty. They even feel obliged to be subordinate to them and to always save them, even from their own stupidities. And if, for one reason or another, they are not rescued, they possess the power of the absurd, thanks to their rage, their impudence, and their ignorance. They have an entire system that supports them, and they have the Sophistry, their little truths. They had lunch and talked about trivial things, only occasionally about important matters, sometimes about essential matters, and, of course, urgent matters. He loved her accent, her smile, her body. And it was difficult to know if she truly saw him with the same emotion he felt for her. But she did, except that over the years, her distrust, not so much of others, but of him and how she perceived provocation, wouldn't lead him any further if she didn't make a move. As they said goodbye that sunny afternoon, there was a moment of silence. She understood that she needed to know what his lips tasted like and how she would react to a kiss. He wouldn't take that initiative anymore. Not out of insecurity, but because, in his Sophistry, he had learned to postpone so that nothing would ever happen and he would find an excuse, a reason. Or perhaps, after all these years, he simply didn't care about any of them.

These are not times for vengeance, but for justice. A time to uphold reason above any hope or belief, in times when the truth is spoken brazenly because lies are unnecessary. This cruel and wicked truth is embraced by those who, hopeless, no longer even yearn for power, but want everyone else annihilated and oppressed along with them. And therein lies their hope.  A hope that ironically bathes in the fallacy of pessimism for everyone is not a contradiction; it is the ambiguity of ill will and all the confusion it generates, the confusion to deceive and tire. He'd lied to himself, saying he wouldn't drink any liquor all week, but one thing led to another, and he ended up having a little white wine with dinner. Well, a couple of glasses, even one while watching a Roberto Rossellini film, thinking about how some men think about history, others about turning the page and taking advantage of every line that wasn't even written by them. He was listening now, unable to sleep (and perhaps that's why he'd have another drink), to a bit of Chopin. It felt like spring, but it was still February. What if he sought silence? It would be worse.

However, this is not a time for isolation to triumph, while one nation is destroyed by the greed of another and the confusion of the vast majority, but rather for apathy. This is not a time for fear and falling into the power of fallacy and shamelessness, when only a few enslave everyone else. Have the times of humanity's subservience passed? No. They are being reinvented and ownership, having is now a subscription, just as appreciation is monetization and recognition, a reaction, a like (or the complete opposite, to ban). So, in that power of apathy that silence gives, it also grants nothingness. Since the beginning of the year, every morning, he had managed to write a page or two. It wasn't perseverance, it was desperation. And the longing to see the sunrise with a pencil and paper and coffee and all its aroma, remembering how beautiful a sunrise is, and seeing her asleep, still naked, with the pleasure and security of feeling loved and beside him. However, in his solitude, he realized that his handwriting was getting worse and worse, and his thoughts were as repetitive as his negations: no. No. No. Then, he would distract himself by watching the white traces of winter on the mountains and, of course, how the canvas of the sky at that hour shifted through all the violets, blues, and grays, flecked with pinks and yellows. When morning arrived, whether rainy or clear, he was not only already engaged in his routine but had already finished the page. Although that memory of the woman lingered in his mind a little longer.

There are those who, beyond unity, think of shared freedom. Unity is one thing, uniqueness another, and monolithic yet another. How many men truly think about humanity? How many people are both reasonable and empathetic enough to believe in the possibility of life rather than simply resisting for survival? It might seem that the number is not important, but rather that there is at least one, but the truth is that, in the collective consciousness of humanity, and in the democracy of a majority system, it is necessary to know how many, despite all the possible diversity. Collective and shared passion is therefore necessary to guarantee transcendence and influence something beyond the present. However, it is so easy for fatigue to set in and turn into boredom. So, beyond the question, an answer must be guaranteed that allows not resistance, but mobilization, impact.  When she returned from the bathroom, he was already asleep. She hadn't expected him to wait up for her. They'd had such wonderful sex that, if it weren't for the urge to urinate, she would still be there, lying on the disheveled, sweaty bed, surrounded by his scent, tears, saliva, and all his fluids, asleep in his arms.She watched him. Years later, she would miss watching him sleep, she would miss all those orgasms, their shared laughter, and his manly words. She didn't understand why she had left him, or rather, she did. But it was too late. It hadn't been pride, but arrogance. And she could excuse herself with her age, but the saddest thing for her was not knowing anything about him, even though he had always wanted to know about her, not to come back. No. That made him strange. And now, precisely, she missed him terribly. He was still alive, of course, but even courtesy and compassion no longer deserved her. She had never imagined that would happen, in her arrogance."