Misery and its Eternal Return
Jamile Santos Lago
When I was around 4 or 5 years old, I noticed through the window of a collective a boy sniffing glue and lying on the roof of a bus stop. It was shocking. About two years ago, or less, I don’t remember, I saw a man and a teenager in a cart through a collective window, the youngest was sniffing glue.
In the year that I was making preparations for the entrance exam, a teenager who appeared to be my age was selling chocolates on the bus on which I was. Every day when I go to class, I get scared by the same handicapped person who sits in a
corner of a huge city avenue. He stands there begging. That man is dreadful, that situation is dreadful. At the bus station of the University there are always some “crazy” or an abandoned forgotten with an alarming aesthetic.
From the window of my usual driving, on the way to class, I contemplate a city apart, it seems abandoned, but it is well populated, they are bodies, thoughts, workers, hopes, dreams and children. There are many children, and I believe that several wander the urban center, shining boots, cleaning windshields, juggling.
I always ran into a boy who wandered in the neighborhoods of greatest reference. With a hoarse voice, an outfit that was not only big by size, it was also extended by time, that outfit should have a dense ingrained history, darkened by dust, it should bring the odors of life, of that boy’s life. His eyes were red, but his vision was not filled with tears. So would they be red with hate? Most likely: some narcotic. Such a boy should drug himself tirelessly.
Once he hurried by, ran a lot, and behind a store security guard. The young man was pulled by the collar of his shirt, “little thief!”.
He had stolen a gold cord. The victim would rub his neck and cry, out of pain, perhaps revolt. The boy was crying desperately, “Uncle, it wasn’t me”.
A child who knows a lot about life, with his ingenuity compromised, cried desperately, “uncle, it wasn’t me, it wasn’t me”.
Does life teach us to lie … Or is lying an inheritance that we already bring from birth? But did the boy have a crib? Doubt.
People and opinions: “parents, stone them”, “State, the culprit”, people and opinions: circular. And this is surprising, because at all times I see repetition paradoxically intertwined with the passage, with aging, with the fall of what is old, with the flowering of death cataloged in newspaper pages. Things pass, and an essence
it remains, a mediocre essence, aesthetically horrendous and smelly, but which deserves contemplation, statically moves towards an end that never seems to end.