It’s worth it to exercise, not smoke, not drink, not worry too much about the things of life and not obsess about tomorrow. Although I don’t comply with any of these premises, I have a recipe – not all that healthy for the body but extremely so for the head – which has saved me time and again: I will not be brainwashed, I prefer to yearn for the truth, rather than to live sleeping with the lie.
Memory is treacherous and I can’t remember the exact moment when, probably in front of the television, I said, “These gentleman, it’s a fact, they’re lying to me.” On the other hand, and completely against my will, I have stuck in my mind like hieroglyphics the numerous communications I read when I was an exemplary pioneer, the posters I pasted, “I did vote for ALL,” even the tears I cried for that stranger Che assassinated – according to my elementary school studies – so I could be happy.
After these strange evocations about myself – another unknown me and luckily quite small – I have a black hole the size of the universe and my next scene is quite antagonistic with respect to the previous chapter, a perfect example of the mishmash of images of a traumatic memory:
I am in the hallway at the technical school where I studied, talking to a group of professors and there is the president of FEEM, the Federation of Secondary School Students. The conversation is tense, but the character is affable, she says to me:
“I think things can improve, in meetings I say what I think, I try to do what I can.”
“You will be like that, but it seems to me that to be in the Youth is, for the most part, pure opportunism.”
I would like to know what happened exactly, in the middle. What I read, what I lived, what I saw? I try and try but I can’t remember. Maybe I will never manage to see anything, but I learned something: we are what we think, we cannot allow ourselves the luxury of forgetting.
Song “Maniobras” by Ciro from the disc, “When The Day Dawns”
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