The good little people, the poets hate them. They find in them no color other than that of the undifferentiated and the filthy misery. These little people are pretexts for them to claim the ingratitude of fate, the tragedy of the human condition. For this reason, the good little people are great to live their destiny close to nothing.
Good little people, politicians use them. They dress them in the great cloak of democracy, allow them to open their mouth once every four or five years and, although this game is dangerous for their future, boast of having played in the power war. Politicians are great, and most of the time we only remember them, their illustrious names, their chivalrous cowards. The good little people, it is well known, have a wide back, deaf ears, a head that quickly forgets. Faithful as a dog, dumb as a carp, the good little people are sent to war when necessary, sent to walk when they disturb, offered to dream to prevent them from thinking.
The good little people, the intellectuals are moving away from them, the hipsters are caricaturing them, the young people are rebelling against them for a while before melting too, the thirty-something achieved, into homogenization. Those who believe they are rising from the mud certainly look good for a while. They spread their wings, their hormones, their carelessness before their wings melt inexorably when the fire of truth occurs. They fall back and find the good little people who, like a black ocean of lava, absorb them, burn them, sometimes devour them.
The good little people are of course all of these. It is indeed not much. A big procreation machine, an existential beast wheel that we learn to love and insult. A rock, an absurd mountain. And, when you think about it, poets, popes, policemen, intellectuals, hipsters and young people are no more, they do no better. All liars, all stubborn, all obsessed, all afraid, all innocent with overflowing hands, all fools and unconscious.
I, the poet who presumes everything, I tell you. We do not realize that history, the one born before ours even began, has been written trillions and trillions of light-years ago. It takes place beyond the light, beyond the grandiloquent invention that the human race dares to call God.
You can’t blame the good little people for being what they are. They are certainly all idiots. It’s obvious, the crowd is stupid. So what about an entire people.
There is no one to guide them anymore, not now anyway. No one knows, everyone pretends to know. So we must excuse the ignorants, because heaven, as well as hell, belongs to them.
So? Nothing and the opposite. In this batch of incongruities, there are obviously the good scientists, the unaltered poets, the devoted politicians, the silent priests, the faithful mothers and fathers, the passionate children, the good little serene people, the azure sky, the void calm.
Anything is possible when you think about it. Anything is possible. Even happiness.