And the sign said "The words of the prophets
are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls"
And whispered...
In the sound of silence
(Paul Simon)
We will never know.
It remains a mystery that will never be clarified. But like all things that have no proper answer, they will forever remain smoldering somewhere, at least in a few places, at least in a few heads that have found it convenient to burden themselves with such questions. At least on the walls that Paul Simon sang about.
We live in a time of constant repetition of the burning of the Library of Alexandria, a sad daily rerun of the destruction of the collection of Al-Hakam II or the blackening of the Tigris River due to the spilled ink of millennial knowledge thrown out of the House of Wisdom in Baghdad.
As if in some cursed vicious circle whose contours are constantly traced by the caterpillars of the armored vehicles of O'Brien's Skull-Trampling Boot, the System, are locked the talents, the creative energy, the unspoken beauty, the unexpressed elegance, the unsung songs of billions of people.
Destruction is seen everywhere, in the eyes of all those who occasionally remember something they would like to do, to give their best, it is expressed as a scar in all those who do not know what they want outside the received programs with which the system generously supplies them.
Most of the energy and time that life consists of is spent in fear of the impossibility of eventual physical survival in various forms and types and of satisfying imposed needs.
Motivation is fear of death.
Motivation is fear.
Fear.
Pour qui?
Pour quoi?
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