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Living the lives of others helps me to avoid feeling alone in these cannibalistic times, satiated with false goodwill; and in which the only proposal for social improvement we are suggested —by the progressive media progression and the mediatised regression—, is the mumbo-jumbo of going out to the streets and destroy everything, in scenes similar to those that Francisco de Goya denounced with etching.
I try and control my anger and fury. That's one of my daily struggles. I know them to be resolutive, I fear them to be self-destructive of my scarce humanity. That's why I brake them with insulation. I am aware of the state of despair in which those who have lost everything but their dignity find themselves. That is why I try not to stir up their anger and fury with my words.
Away from the madding crowd, I opt for home activity. I prefer to sit and read, to see, to listen... or to whistle any melody that keeps me away from melancholy. My place is not out there, where my person would melt in mob; and this one, in an horde. I am suspicious of the dehumanisation that crowds usually bring along.
Maybe that's why I’ve became more and more lonesome.
