Chronicles II

I’m late, aren’t I? I get dressed in a race against time and leave in a hurry to elementary school. The morning breeze, cold and damp, wiped the sleep from my face. Empty roads, abandoned sidewalks and a sleeping city were companions that touched me on this trip. I look at the clock, 8:10 a.m. The journey was getting longer the closer I got, the fatigue disappeared in a rush delay, turned into anxiety.

If I had done well what I had to do, would I have strength to carry out the task imposed on meWas it clear to him what he had to do? Doubts built up in my head, but when I turned the corner and ran into the entrance of the school, they all disappeared at once. He entered a different mode, now was not the time to doubt, everyone had questions, but the answer was always the same: “You have to sweep home.”

A brief overview of the tables that were now under my watchful eyea formal greeting with the other observers and a quick search for where to place my skeleton, I already had the formula for all of this, it’s easier than I thought.

Hours take time to pass through my watch, minutes refuse to leave my wrist, the fatigue of the repetitive image of a half-empty room is imprinted on my retinas and makes the easy work of doing nothing even more tiresome. To distract myself, I start wandering, giving circles around the educational structure. With each step, a new thought begins to erode the reason for existence.

Democracy is printed paper, democracy is an envelope, democracy is a transparent box, democracy is three people at a table, democracy is a queue, democracy is a Sunday morning. Does all this effort make sense? It looks like child’s play, it looks like a trap in broad daylight. Arbitrary rules and discord were still slow to emerge, but flashes of capricious organization made it all the more oppressive. to stand firm in front of the plague reality that everything you had before you was nothing more than a vulgar pantomime.

It’s been ten hours since this all started, ten hours of standing around, watching the slow tide of people come in, vote and leave, ten hours of utterly boring democracy. The market is closed, an inalienable right vote, voting is over. It runs a cumbersome routine that maintains maximum transparency critic of “LA DEMOCRACIJA”. Envelopes are counted once, envelopes again, and envelopes a third time; the votes are counted once, the votes are counted again, and the votes are counted a third time.

Those who are “not worth it” get away, those who “don’t stand” fight, tempers are stirred. They are divided by game and the piles are counted once, once more and one last time. The numbers are added up, the results confirm and the function ends. It lasted 15 hours the democratic act of voting, fifteen hours is an easy read, but it passes slowly and tiringly.

At the end of the day, with the Sun well hidden behind the horizon, everything remains the same, nothing changes. The world continues to turn, people continue to die, animals remain under the natural control of their instincts, and we, like arrogant demigods to believe ourselves, we push the plumb line of historylike a guillotine that, sooner or later, will take its revenge on us.