El ruido mas fuerte; ignorado

I see a person who would appear not to have a home.

Cecity ignorance and fear deviate all forms of humanity from their primordial state of unique beauty. A
façade of social decency is thus created and we are compelled to share in the empty reassurance of
brief, meaningless answers in the stead of a common, interrogative void which we succeed in averting
solely in its collective form but follows us into our houses, stalking solitude in moments untainted by
duty. Free time, stillness and silence harbour the exiled doubts and are our enemies ready to pounce
whenever we are found wanting in easy conversation, television, drunkenness or any other form of time
expenditure, time wastage. In consequence, most of us flee the void by running parallel to time in the
conviction that, if running fast enough, we will match its speed and travel in its wake as it breaks the
wind ahead, halving our fatigue in the form of preceding cyclist or marathon runner.
It is a risky business, this running, the main hazard being falls for these place one at the mercy of
impending void which, from afar (though distance is as difficult to ascertain as it is to increase), draws
us backward, away from our destinations. In the meantime and mean, time, with cruel, defying laughter
sprints into the distance faster than ever.
One must not trip and one’s friends must not either because if they do, one can do little more than call;
also a sharp tug perhaps, but no more. One must never, never stop.
As in any endurance race, keeping the pace is essential; when one cannot run any faster, it is of primal
importance he at least keep the pace of his peers. If others, who you were polite to but never really
liked, reach time first, there will be traffic, there will be a queue and, of course, all advantages will be
diminished.
Nobody lives in the void, nobody can run as fast as time; it is said, some have run faster, overtaken and
then, for them and all who saw, it was with surprise they did fall into the void. They brushed the dust
from their fashionable trousers, rising to their feet just in time to see that very time disappearing again
into the distance. They cursed.
They started running again.
The man who would appear not to have a home, laughed and then wept. He had, has now and most
probably always will have those very same wild, staring clothes; scruffy, dirty eyes.
Joy fills his face again as he moves two steps to the right; he is child, he smiles, overwhelmed he stares
at the sun. Two steps to the left and his face slumps as his head; passively he notices tears, his own,
dropping about his shoes.
Then right, then left, calmly, naturally; like breathing. Water of sorrow, water of joy, always salted,
always cool as it runs down cheeks.
“I am the son of God!” He shouts, in hot air and spitting.
“I am the son of man!”
“I can never stop. I will never hurry. I am almost a God. I am not entirely a man!”
“I will not leave you!” with outstretched, hopeless arms “Two steps to the left, two to the right; here we
will meet. And you will be mostly women.”
He begins to shout louder; his words surrendered in desperate cries; flowing and almost a song.
“The Beauty!!”
“The Beauty!!”
“The Beauty!!”
“My Gods, have you not seen the beauty !??!”
His voice collapses to a broken whisper “It is imperfect, it is life clear as my end in this perfect centre.”
He indicates a point on the ground close to his feet “Here I will die and be a God and be among you no
more.”
This man has no memories, no ambition; no concept of the past, no understanding of the future.

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

Frightened people shuffle quickly past.

a.ritroso