Our head is already inside the huge beast’s mouth. Its sharp tooth close to our temple. Freedom at the tip of a sharp canine. Because the hunter, the soldier – those slaves of the syndrome-of-lack – after having killed one by one, after having consumed all the blood in their hunger – after having extinguished all possible targets: will only have themselves to turn the weapon upon, pointing at the last available victim.
Who is this ghost that lives in the kingdom-of quantity, the realm of competition and ever-becoming? Who scraped the bone of its muscle and vitality? Who has torn – in order to make of it a royal mantle of imbecility – the flesh itself from the face of those who love us? Our demands masked by the supposed rights-for-more. You have a right to nothing, because your merit is nil. You don’t know how to exist, therefore you don’t know how to feel – you, the only animal that kills from a distance – the schizophrenic that projects cities of an utopia that will never be, because there will never be any future without all of them: those who love us.
That bullet of yours should have been a dream that you could project, from the distance, from here until one never–ending day, for the sake of a beautiful child and its seed. That kid, my friend, who in this same sick city gave me one baobab-tree seed. But you did not project an actualization for him, a global maturity, you did not project a home for him – you just invented that projectile of cowardice. The homo sapiens is the only animal that kills from a distance. Cain: those you love you turn into Abel. And Abel gave you a baobab seed from that same tree in whose hollow he hides from you, because he is a child without a home. Without you. Because he hides from you and your hunger, your envy. Your syndrome-of-lack, you sicko. The child gave me the seed so that I can plant my own home, and inside it hide the sacred essinde leaves, that attract thunderbolts and make blazing violet bushes. May that violet colour remind you of the peace of being one single global soul. May these essinde leaves protect you, says the kimbanda sorcereress, may they protect you from Cain’s envious big-eye. May such a peace mean the cessation of your wanting-ever-more, because you have discovered that there is nothing more to want from the other, because he is already part of you. So you know that the other is me, and the other is you. And there is no one other. When you understand this, it is because the big beast’s jaws have crushed your skull. Finally peace.