Final pandemic | Luis Britto Garcia

Infinity. In trivial circumstances infinity is announced. I can't find the book I need in the library. A moment ago I put the pen in a place that I do not remember. The name of some memorable little lady does not come to mind. For nothing do I find the paper with the secret of the universe, which I wrote down the night before. Instead of those things I have found infinity. When we have everything, we will have nothing, because it cannot be located. This is infinity: its size is that of nullity itself.

Locked up. In the prison of the Self from which there is no escape. Not knowing if the flesh puppets that rise up before us also harbor the spark of Being, much less how it is. Hardly suspecting the presence of the flare when some alien glow surpasses us and therefore annihilates us.

The world of the spellbound. Each one perfects an art, moving away from life as he refines it in opposite directions, losing himself in worlds unrelated to each other and to the world itself, an attempt to free himself from the blasphemy of reason.

They have created sensory traps that distance them from the real world and the first to fall into them are the creators who dream them.

Along the way they are found captured in sublime sensory traps: visual, acoustic or olfactory vibrations so suggestive and harmonic that once perceived it is impossible to leave them: merely imagining them can lose us: like flies on a sticky strip of paper the enraptured clusters: perhaps it doesn't matter that they remain like this: they may be kept just to investigate a function of their tissues or their nerves while the ecstasy paralyzes them.

Only the perfect dreamer dreams the perfect trap that will make them all fall into rapture.

O blessed are the ancient creators whom death allowed to escape from their dreams, more elaborate and perfect, intensified to the point of unbearable. Inexhaustible proliferation of gestures and forms. Woe to whoever takes the first step in this maze. Monstrous caricatures of themselves, for the enraptured there is no redemption.

Maybe we are already trapped and dream that the escape continues.

Sector. A sector where all surfaces and creatures are mirrors and nothing and no one is himself, but a reflection of a reflection.
Ideas embodied. Just as in the end times there was a tendency to reduce embodied works to series of digits, after the cataclysm the New Power expands ideas in three-dimensional masses. After exhausting himself transposing cyclopean ruins of geometric shapes, the traveler discovers that it is a thread of reasoning translated into solid masses. Everything rational is real, but not everything real is rational. Any monstrosity is allowed to flourish in the hope of explaining it logically. Once explained, the world can be closed. In the end, the end will come, the only thing that has no end.

Debt. Who remembers the moment in which the Global Public Debt progressed from 100 to 150, to a thousand percent per year of the Gross Domestic Product of the World, moment in which by what was owed exceeded what was produced, to satisfy the debt all Governments had to contract even more debt, since one factor of the acceleration consists in the fact that it is necessary to get into debt to be able to pay the debt maturities, which ends up multiplying in geometric progression while production grows only in arithmetic progression. Thus we live only to pay the interest and interest on the interests of a Debt that grows with each payment, without knowing who we owe or who the owners of everything we create and everything we produce that is going to be canceled. the balance that grows with each payment without us finally knowing who or what owns us to whom and why it is owed.

Algorithms It might seem strange, but democracy has never been more exalted since the algorithms of finance control our lives. They determine what skills are still temporarily necessary to keep the world dominated by algorithms. Whole sections of the world disappear, but we don't find out. The algorithms allow us to choose the judges who will condemn us as superfluous. They also allow us to choose the administrators of the extermination camps. Once sentenced, they authorize us to choose our executioners. What we can never choose are algorithms.

Final pandemic. Look in the middle of the lonely square at the man who is delirious without relief from applause or hope of cure.
He affirms that the deadly disease has infected us all with no possible palliative or vaccine in sight.
The only bread that humanity shares is that of the community of symptoms of loss of strength, weakness in reasoning and flight of memories.

Attention to the pain in the bones, the vertigo, the cloudy vision.

Stunned by the disease we see ourselves in mirrors or puddles without recognizing ourselves.

Thousands of things begin to fall apart, all the symptoms of everything manifest, the disease runs its course with no improvement other than deception and no treatment other than accepting it.

The therapies are cosmetic and none hints at the slightest shadow of hope.

No one is healthy, we hardly advance in different degrees of morbidity until the attempt to reverse it worsens without fail.

Since the beginning of time, the remedy to cure us of time has lacked.

We will become more and more deeply ridiculous, richer, more incoherent, older.

Fake news. What has been achieved with the complaint of the Fake News. Soon you realize that the best news is false. Someone set them up to deceive you without accomplishing anything other than pleasing you. With mechanisms of espionage or Big Data, they accurately discover your terrors and tastes. You only get fraudulent news, it doesn't matter which side you're on because the news agencies carefully adjust it to your whims. The rulers you hate have ceased to rule and the stars you love barely sparkle in the sky. The change is not limited to the news: now all things are false. The world is much more comfortable like this, without worrying about whether the real universe endures or has already been extinguished.

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