What is a man before the forest of sand and cement?What do lambs do when they go to the slaughterhouse?
Concrete trees hide the horizon. the moon rises The sun dominates the city, restless, still alive.
Heavy waves, giant steps, he scratches his pocket, she takes off her ring. Assembly of sins, multitude of blessings. Fizzles people stretch into the sky, in the desire to steal space from the clouds. Cold shame slides, anger barks and love echoes, all in the same corner.
There is no point in living without meaning, just as there is no point in sailing without a destination, because the sea, like life, likes to wreck a lost ship.
A can that flies underground, spewing masses of aggravated reduced. Lobotomized, bodies march, to the sounds of an orchestra of deceived people. They enter, exit, climb, descend. They stick together, move away, but they all arrive where fate has sent them. Because regardless of the distance, the flight of the albino worm cuts time for little money. Many walked like moles, leaving the mine, attacking the surface. Soldiers of an already lost warthey stand in line to cross the gates of the state, the deep roots of control.
There’s no point in living without it sense, as there is no reason to navigate without a destination, because the sea, like life, likes to wreck a lost ship.
Scattered thoughts divide us. Collected attention, unsupervised life, walks in front of us like autumn leaves. Seconds fall inside the tunnel, the rope tightens, the exit shortens.
The people shout for an image that comes from heaven. ‘Santiago!’, they shout furiously to stop foreign invasion. »Santiago‘, they shout from the bottom towards the stars. The city, in silence, rebels against tyranny. The avenues are painted red, the pavements explode with yellow. They convene, mobilize, unite, like ants, crowds gather under the walls of gas.
There is no point in living without meaning, just as there is no reason sail aimlessly because the sea, like life, likes to wreck a lost ship.
But the colony is falling apart, very little cohesion, very little passion, the days of debauchery, revelry and death are over. Today, in this cocoon of green mirrors, all that remains is contempt for the ashes, a dark memory of rage baptized with fire, blood and tears. He smiles, she looks at him.
the cry of a thousand gods is made present, observed on the street, the lights change, The blood of tropical sticks rolls, zebras dissolve into tar. There is no point in living without meaning, just as there is no point in sailing without a destination, because the sea, like life, likes to wreck a lost ship.
And again I get lost in the immensity of the crystal jungle. A cage made of glass, steel and plaster. Looking for meaning in meaninglessness, wanting to find a solution to the labyrinth. The turban covers the sky, the chains are released, the cotton clouds burn under the sun and leave behind a residual ash.
Like a primitive call, home ignites the flame of return. The road is automated, the journey is forgotten. A calm search for sequences of past lives follows you step by step and after the grimace of yesterday, tomorrow shines under the shadow of a brick. But the idea is still pending.
There is no point in living without meaning, just as there is no point in sailing without a goal, because the sea, like life, loves shipwreck lost ship.
Source: Panama America
I am David Miller, a highly experienced news reporter and author for 24 Instant News. I specialize in opinion pieces and have written extensively on current events, politics, social issues, and more. My writing has been featured in major publications such as The New York Times, The Guardian, and BBC News. I strive to be fair-minded while also producing thought-provoking content that encourages readers to engage with the topics I discuss.
