continuum

“One day, the apolitical intellectuals of my country will be interrogated by the humblest of our people. They will be asked what they did when their country was slowly dying out, like a sweet campfire, small and abandoned. No one will ask them about their dress or their long siestas after lunch, or about their futile struggles against “nothingness,” or about their ontological way to make money, No, they won’t be questioned on Greek mythology, or about the self-disgust they felt when someone deep inside them was getting ready to die the coward’s death. They will be asked nothing about their absurd justifications nurtured in the shadow of a huge lie. On that day, the humble people will come, those who never had a place in the books and poems of the apolitical intellectuals but who daily delivered their bread and milk, their eggs and tortillas; those who mended their clothes, those who drove their cars, those who took care of their dogs and gardens, and worked for them, and they will ask: “What did you do when the poor suffered, when tenderness and life were dangerously burning out in them?” Apolitical intellectuals of my sweet country, you will have nothing to say. A vulture of silence will eat your gut. Your own misery will gnaw at your souls. And you will be mute in your shame.”

“Solitude gives birth to the original in us, to beauty unfamiliar and perilous—to poetry. But also, it gives birth to the opposite: to the perverse, the illicit, the absurd.”

I have two states of being now: reblogging this, and being dead.