By Alex Petraru.
"Dream" occurs sometime in the near future. It may be considered
science fiction writing. It is possible that some informed people will consider what is said here to be outdated. Behavior can be controlled, and this is mentioned in this text. Maybe the methods
here described won't be used. We will see?
"Hu said nothing, yet again. He was almost a professional mute,
because he wasn't mute, he just assumed a lack of voice, just as he
had assumed a lack of own ideas. Gustavo and BoozeBottle also
belonged to an immense legion of people who only had a voice
amongst their peers, they were "mutes" to everyone else. Gustavo
thought about the silliness of this situation. How many "mutes"
were there in this world?"
To all my readers, my Thanks.
(This book was published in Portuguese as: Mota C, Sonho, Junho
de 2006. Papiro Editora, Porto, Portugal. ISBN: 9728916736.)
Gustavo looked at the walls as he always did, or rather, as he used
to do. He looked at them and wondered whether they had been
built from the top to the bottom or from the bottom to the top and
then thought about how silly his ideas were. In fact, none of it
mattered. It would actually be interesting if the walls were built
from the top to the bottom, though it didn't seem likely. Nor did
that "Freedom" exist, Gustavo thought! What Freedom existed?
As a young boy he had moved to that neighbourhood, that area,
that place, that home.
I remember Banana, WindyBag, BoozeBottle, grunted Gustavo
in the general direction of his friend Emílio. Remember them? No,
and I don't care to. What is the point of remembering what doesn't
exist anymore? You're right, Emílio, it doesn't exist anymore. But
it does exist, deep down it exists because it is what made what
exists now exist, it exists because it exists in us, it still exists... Stop with the old man's stuff, Gustavo! Not even you exist, have you
thought about that?
Gustavo became slightly annoyed and continued talking to himself.
Emílio was too much of a realist for his taste. Deep down he considered himself a "great demystifier", as Gustavo would tell
him. But he wasn't. Neither him nor anyone else, actually.
He had spent many years there, in the Bairro de Santa Clara,
between Víboras and Camelo, number 31, as it appeared on his
postal address. Had he seen the World or had he seen nothing? He
had been travelling for a few years, today he didn't know if it had
done him any good, if it had harmed him, if it had done anything
to him at all! He had recently met a young man. He would be
around twentyseven years old, a kid, he was a doctor, who knew a
lot more about life than he did! At least he, Gustavo, thought that.
His travels hadn't given him any special knowledge, maybe they
had even made him a more confused person, kind of mystical,
without a sense of objectivity, without any real knowledge of anything necessary. After all, any doctor knew more than he did
and was much more useful than he could ever be! He had heard of
a powerful man of Good, an Indian, who cured from a distance. He
had been there, in India and hadn't learnt anything, he now thought. Can you learn something amidst the deepest misery?
Maybe you can learn resignation. Is resignation a gift? An art? A
wisdom? He looked at his hands. The palms of his hands. There
were people who mixed scientific knowledge with the reading of
palms, with a search for signs. None of this made sense, he thought.
Hands were like walls. They told stories. But they told them with
little accuracy: they could easily mislead. The lines on hands were