TEÓDULO LÓPEZ MELÉNDEZ, Writer and Journalist - Caracas, Venezuela
We have arrived to the breakup of the language in the septic well of the lie. The country is silent because the word is hardly an outlandish noise, a strange guttural sound that anything means neither anything seeks, unless that same, noise.
We seem a society that involuciona so quickly that it reduces their expression forms to the most elementary signs and the inarticulate murmurs. We could exaggerate saying that our setback is so marked that soon we will attempt the indispensable messages by means of movements of the hands pointing out objects or perhaps with soundproof movements of the lips that which itch swollen it points out that that before identified with words.
We are reducing the logical process from the mind to few even articulate sentences as latiguillos, I eat for example, “that is blame of the empire”. The impoverishment of the language has arrived to the ends of cutting the articulation that we used to call thought. We no longer baste sentences, we no longer identify subject with words, now we loose sounds that don't come from a cerebral work of production of ideas. No, now simply that is said it is “terrorism mediático.”
This way, the country has gone losing the capacity to think. “Thought” it is maybe, and not more, that herbaceous plant of the family of the violáceas. To imagine and to reflect is no longer the meaning of the word “thought”. OR perhaps, in a forgotten meaning, to think is not more than to toss thinks the animals. This country, then, lacks thought in the meanings generally accepted to decrease to some old ones in disuse, but more serious still, it already lacks the word that is the sound expression of that old process that basted with coherence what you/they called themselves ideas in another time.
The verborrea is not sample of the use of the language. The verborrea is confirmation of the imbecilización of the daily life of a society that has been left without expression. We have been attacked in such a way that “to think” it is not more than to toss food to those “animals” from the ports crammed by an agriculture of petrodollars, what is denominated in this particular language of a society without words, “alimentary security”.
In the politics's land, one where the ideas are elementary to avoid that this activity is something more than a conquering male that organizes the flock, is where the poverty of the language-more than poverty, this disappearance of the language - it shows us to a country subsumido in the silence, one where everything is to say and that, paradoxically, it seems that he doesn't have anything to say. The banality is the expression form “vincente”. Nobody says anything, in the sense that the expression has coherence, logic or purpose (in the sense that an appropriate or opportune objective is looked for), because we can never consider as such the abochornamiento in the loss of the expression.
The country keeps silent. This is a quiet country. It is simply noise what leaves the truck from the applicant to mayor that the parish travels where I live in the municipality Sucre (adorned with a pancarta of plastic that should cost several millions) screaming “against the poverty” or “against the unemployment”. That is no longer language, it is simply to answer with the same poverty the sentence “terrorism mediático” or “it is blame of the empire.”
If the word (or better, their substitute) it is used as ingredient to fossilize, to wrap mummies, to harden the death under the care of bandages, we can affirm that this country has been transformed into a weatherbeaten cadaver. They have become this country an accumulation of grasses paralizantes where these they have lost until the aroma, because while I walk for the parish where I live it is the scent to decomposed garbage the predominant thing, as insolent as the I copy of language that he goes us being until definitively we only enter to produce screeches.
The expression and the thought go of the hand. A country that he doesn't think cannot overcome its conflicts of the moment. He becomes a silent country, like we are now, one that attended dauntless to the guttural atrocities, without reaction capacity, paralyzed and entertained in the loss of the language, loss that contributes to the “happiness” of the inconciencia, as an autist that maintains a pararrayo that stops the annoying sounds.
Amid the mess, of the noise already inmedible in decibeles, of the perpetual scandal, for work and grace of this country that he speaks no longer, what feels is an immense silence, one characteristic of a desert where acting of the wind that sweeps the dunes not even becomes at least a whisper to tell to the manifestations of life that they survive without water that something continues existiendo. Donde they don't survive it is in the maternity of Caracas, where the children die “for blame of the empire” or for an invention of the “terrorism mediático”. OR because the blame is of the Spanish empire that he buys to our doctors with their bastards and dirty “Eurus.”
The one that emigrates is “a traitor to the homeland”. The truck of the applicant to mayor passes among the piled garbage screaming “against the unemployment”. In the station of the nearest Meter to my house the fetid scents are unbearable and the population of abandoned to her luck multiplies in kind of a bedroom where the hope only comes from to be there piled to kill the desidia sharing the desolation.
No, there are no longer words in this country. This country already lost the language. The country cannot speak because it lost the thought. This country already neither he babbles. We will finish being autistic when it is applied in the education the new pensum. Then our children that there are historical lagoons that there are big periods of our history that didn't exist, will learn you internalizará in our children that the history is an invention that is not more than fiction interwoven in the verborrea-that is silence - of the cloistered power. This country is the silence.
