The silence of individuation

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Not all watches in Venezuela give time, nor do all shoes have soles and rubber cars. Just as not all children eat, laugh, study and live, just as not all bathrooms have water. Not all weapons are toys. Walking on sadness is not ephemeral. The joy you receive crying by pure melancholy to see that you missed it and arrived, but it will go away again.

In Venezuela, the extraordinary thing is that you get bread in the bakery. Very strange that you get medicines in pharmacies, in banks money. Meat is donkey, cassava poisons, hunger is iron. Who walks by your side is master of your fear, and maybe of your existence. Fiction and truth; reality and lie.

The politician is a military man, the military man is an entrepreneur, and the political entrepreneur. The narco is a country made novel. The vote is removed with jail, the congress is murdered alone, the illegitimate court legislates, and the one that usurps prosecution. If you are not chavista-madurista, you are an enemy. The teacher is a stupid, the caddy a hero. The malandro is a policeman, and he persecutes the one who goes to the university. A bill washer, and garbage full of hands, full of mouths. The student is a terrorist, the terrorist vice president. Houston is in Aragua and Choroni in the shit. Travel without return, the airport is crying.

In my individuation; I get up and go to bed, I am in my own. Seeing how people fight in a queue, how they keep quiet if you fall. They survive and hurry. The flag is lifted in a selfie. The oficialistas put on the radio the hymn sung by the late Chávez and not who wrote it and did it. Democracy does it their way, what can I do? Run away? AHA! My life saved her, and your life ... And what is your life? I silently remember all those who fight and I become aware that this will change sooner rather than later.

How to make a fight of all?

Written by Jhon A. Romero.-