Mired

It was after the first storm that we barricaded the gate and sealed the doors and windows. There were small leaks in the roof, the floor in front of the house had to be finished in the rain, and suitcases and food still needed to be sorted out. There is never enough time to do everything we set out to do when disaster seems to have struck. One gets ready for utter collapse but still hopes for the best, that's what we told our kind neighbour who offered to take us in when the waters rose. Because we all know that the waters rise, even without storms of such magnitude. As it is well known that a forest of acacia trees on the power lines spreads out next to the pier, with cracks visible to the naked eye, right where the local authorities cut flowering branches and leave them there to rot, awaiting for no ending neglect. As it is well known that the bridge is home to reeds over twenty metres high and trees that resemble buildings. As it is well known that the only evacuation route has always been inaccessible at the slightest rainfall. Even so, the budget is continually allocated to summertime lavish feasts featuring roasted wild boar to people’s delight.

The immense muddy mess that remains clinging to the bones doesn’t really matter. There are always more violent shocks up north and down south, and in the real world, but mainly in the virtual world. The sludge is so thick that we hardly get up except for basic survival, and here we are, it wasn't as quick as one might imagine.

If there is any comfort, it is the inevitable veil of disbelief that falls upon each of our little individualities, finally revealing a dying era of human supremacy crashing down in all its miserable egotistical constructions. Or so I hope, from the depths of my lazy despair looking to a very sad and already feeble resistance. This has been nothing yet in the hemisphere of plastic illusions. Not everyone has realised yet that it is in this actual life, ours and everyone else's, that cheap escapades and brand subterfuges will come to an end, regardless of secret bunkers and extraplanetary journeys. But very soon the day is coming for an untainted apple and the clear word to take flight over bursting dykes and everlasting fading energy. And then perhaps we will still be able to dance around the fire with real musical instruments, that is, with those who have truly come to make it by understanding the truthful meaning of progress.

Postmen come and go continuously in this market of carnival putrefaction, yet they still manage to find our address even without the stolen street sign saying ‘Está Bem’ (All is well). The cultural agenda no longer reaches such remote destinations, but we still receive mail art - a genuine relief.