There was a time when we were big, very big. Four times larger than the Roman Empire to be exact, only surpassed in size, but not in domain, the Macedonian empire of Alexander the Great and the Mongol Empire of Genghis Khan. With a little nuance differential were the first to extend such an influence on this side and beyond the seas. But when wheat sprouted and bore fruit, the weeds appeared also. And with it, Charles II, the Typhoid Mary of Bourbon, Philip V, King Felon and Godoy hustler ... A wreck after another. A withdrawal of no return, just to gather the dry leaf and curl with the touch of the flame. And the amnesia, that evil is endemic to this weary tail end of Europe to be skinned.
Today, as then, same but different. Identical raisins hanging vines, branches and dry on a strain descangallada. Eleven of March. One day, with more pain than glory, would bolster the liturgical year as a true Good Friday. A day of worship to treason and disloyalty. Seven years have passed since that Thursday, two thousand four in which the executioners sink their nails on a nation that was beginning to open again the wings. Ten backpacks hammered into shape enough to throw bombs on the floor all the scaffolding that was starting to raise what was demolished years ago for different foxes, even more treacherous if it is the last Grand Felon. A breakdown of the state he fell into the social tissue necrosis. A company that back in the terminal stage, kicked by the minute as it does on the arena the bull pierced by the sword. But little or nothing lasted the past vigor. The time to leave Iraq shotguns African bees. And a timid society in cowardly complicity that did nothing but remain silent pathos of seeing, makes it look, dispense the truth the same treatment given to the dead. Mounds above. This plague-ridden land of chips and streaky left termites feast ended.
Nobody could better reflect the teacher Albiac in a column for ABC entitled Shadows of March:
"I'ma foreigner in my homeland since that March 11. Foreign his stubborn commitment to the better not to know, because God knows how things would be if they really knew. But I do not know, I never had any perception of a livable life. Without knowing, one is in less than servant in pet. In that thing Baruch de Spinoza terrible described in the pathetic personality the ignorant: As soon as you stop suffering, also ceases to be. And loves his humiliation, because just that.
Truth is a convention judicial guarantees. Must be respected. I will not question it. Between her and the truth, the relationship is the same as between military music and the music. I am not concerned. Actually, yes. No adjective. Mostly because they do not settle for the lie is what, for better or worse, makes me stay alive. Plato called philosophy. But we are not solemn. Insisting on the truth, however harsh it is to be a man. A man. Not this "
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