They are all angry. They were all angry.The have always been angry.
Or so it seems, judging from the LCD-iluminated screen I read.
Someone, in a country somewhere, has stolen, yet again, the nation´s entire budget. People roar, the plazas roar, the riot units bleed, and everyone else simmers, bruised and tased.
The past has come back again, as I hurl barricades and barricades against my bedroom´s door. My most known friends has come back from overseas, back to Christmas with his family, his friends, his highschool friends may I specify, and away from the roars of the television debate, those foreign networks droning on about the smoke that isn´t seen.
Once, a man just went and strangled his wife, tossed his three kids out of the window.
Off he went to glomp a high speeding train.
It just happened one day.
It will happen again, as it has happened before, and everytime the 11 o ´clock news eill gleefully report on his family, his neighbours, and the police.Like always.
Change the nations, change the cities, the ages and the victims, the woman who is on her third frappe of the day switches to the
marriage of some rich kid, parents are bussinessmen, to some rich woman. What a nice dress, the woman of the daily three frappes and ten moccas muses, as she squeezes her wallet...her husband´s, her offspring´s wallet.
People in the shopping malls have to watch out: perhaps someone will throw himself, throw herself. A kid driven insane by school, a young student who has found his two painstakingly suffered college years are worthless, a graduate who has found his year of jobhunting are sterile because a Minister, some boss or whatever, declared the nation´s situation cannot sustain new employment.
And the family and neighbours cannot stand a useless bum, there´s that, too.
That´s why security personnel alway caution you to open your umbrellas; nobody wants to get splattered by the red bits and unidentifiables that will rain and splash off the pavement. Oh well, let´s wait for the newscrew at seven o ´clock. Oh, and the teary eyed family who had no idea, who are deeply regretful, to the serious police director, to the president who still assures us everything is being done to improve- and cut to the next page: let´s see the result of the latest soccer matches.
And then we toss the newspaper to the trashbin, unless the matron roars at us to save it, useless bums that we are, have to clean up the windows, clean up the house, clean up the act, clean up our souls, clean up the world.
The barely censored photos and the nearly bursting out of the page headline grow fainter and fainter, squeaking glasses, lame stupid jokes blaring on the radio the matron loves to hear,until the news become dilluted in soap and water and the city below.