Extract from the text in La Plaza
I see the world as an image.
An image that doesn׳t belong to me.
A quiet, dead image.
I don׳t see the difference between a painting and the wall the painting is hanging on, or the person looking at it.
I don׳t differentiate between person and object.
I don׳t find the sun any more interesting than what it illuminates.
All of your bodies are part of a single landscape.
All of you, and the world itself, are the same image to me.
A superficial image.
And in fact, if I׳ve never felt a deep interest in others,
it׳s because I׳m not convinced that you׳re as real as I am.
Even when I touch you,
even when I watch you move,
even when I see you cry,
even when I see you talk,
even when you make me laugh.
I׳m more real than you are.
Do whatever you like.
I׳m fine with everything.
I don׳t want to change
the landscape in front of me.
Even so, I׳ve tried.
At social events,
I׳ve greeted everyone as they merit.
At family gatherings,
I׳ve played with the children.
I׳ve made my friends laugh.
I׳ve tried to spend my time in the best way possible.
I׳ve enjoyed a time for youth,
I׳ve enjoyed time for adventure,
a time for love,
time for reflection,
time for sex.
I׳ve experimented with my own body,
I׳ve touched other bodies and liked it;
I׳ve desired other bodies that I׳ve never been able to touch.
I׳ve thought that the energy of youth was inexhaustible,
and I׳ve discovered that the energy of youth was beginning to fail me.
I׳ve spoken about sport, I׳ve spoken about music,
I׳ve spoken about travel, I׳ve spoken about words.
Without question I׳ve upheld traditions,
without question I׳ve defended acquired values,
I׳ve obeyed laws that were already ratified,
I׳ve admired symbols that were already legitimised,
I׳ve spoken the language I was taught
and, using this, my brain prepared the stage for life,
and I׳ve called it all: culture.
And taking part in it all has made me feel stronger
because it׳s fed my sense of belonging to a group,
because it׳s validated me as someone.
And the complexity of this subtle and imperceptible ideological movement,
I׳ve called: life.
At no point have I stopped to think that in reality
all I׳ve been able to do is to replicate the image of
what was expected of me: working, fucking, and dying.
I׳m the civilian casualty,
I get the special deals,
I׳m a percentage point in surveys,
I׳m the free market,
I׳m the voter,
I׳m the reader of headlines,
I׳m the football fan,
I׳m the one who drinks in bars,
dances in clubs and walks through squares.
I׳m the world and its history,
I׳m the history of the world.
And then I׳ve gone home and haven׳t been able to sleep
because my brain was considering an unspeakable truth:
I׳ve wasted my time.
My confusion is such that, contrary to what I should feel,
I can׳t stop thinking that the world is an image.
All the terrorist attacks, the demonstrations, the coups,
the human migrations, the missions to Mars,
the self–driving cars,
it׳s all so strange, so distant and yet so simple
that, like a hallucination over time, it becomes fiction.
I׳d like this piece to end in silence.