Bad Invisible Teachers
Page 35
EPILOGUE
There is a Building, really to the isolated one close to the hospital, that polls for prestige and opulence. Its prestige is recognized by all the tribes since all of you they reflect him.
The building is body, the glass is meat of it.
Organism all the people's leviathan, that building has a heart.
Monster from the thousand languages, in the entrailses he/she speaks the language one, the primitive Code that winds among the living ones, from which everything starts and to which everything will return.
It has a hidden heart the Building of Glass. A Chamber, a clipping of profane sacredness, a homage to the science and the old ones of the, whatever name you/they had sewn I set.
The Chamber of Meditation in the Building of the United Nations was almost always empty. Only a powerful person of the earth rarely, asked access to pick up him in front of the idol of the god of every time, genuflesso in front of the black monolite that you/he/she acts from altar of it.
The Chamber is a number, since everything is number. Pyramid truncates, truncated by the idol. The believer cannot see the vertex, because the idol of the god blocks him the sight. But the vertex is over that god: only passing you through can be reached him/it.
The idol is a cloth: forms and colors are bundled. Settantadue sections. The names of god.
A twisted blade crosses them. As a helix that races on herself as a snake that it twists him to his/her baton.
As a chain.
Men's chain, chain inside men. Acids chain that envelops us from inside, our slavery's chain. A chain that cannot be broken. But you/he/she can be reconstructed.
Who adores the idol, and he/she understands the essence of it, he/she adores me.
The block of magnetite sottostà to the idol, as an altar watched over by the eye scaled of the god.
God that from the night of the times it nourishes him of primary pulsioni as the terror. Human sacrifices have satisfied the angers of awful divinity, since the terror of the death is the strongest pulsione. Today the rite reaches conclusion, since on that altar not a man, but the man himself is to be immolated.
A man knows him/it. An alone man, closed in the meditation. He/she knows to be the alone to the world, since you/he/she cannot have sodali he who it has to find the words to announce the end.
Giovanni, lively centenary checca, wandering on the island of Patmos you/he/she had translated his/her trips barricaded in the house: choice of decorum, was not well to an evangelist to make to be seen in blow. But its revelation was a lot still in there to come.
The General Secretary of the organization would have talked to nations disunited of the present end, digitally penetrated in the houses, in the meetings, in he asked her in the job.
He/she asked to the idol to find the strength and the words. And he/she asked him/it he who the words volutamente it disowns.
It had to be enslaved of the words for a last time. It had to tie himself/herself/themselves to their contingent and equivocal value, to their semantic poverty, the only comprehensible for the wise little fellow.
The authentic message, that primitive, of numbers and colors, you/he/she would have been cultured one day, over the end of the days, from new and taller creatures, daughters of a new original sin, this time completed in spite of the Old one.
Do you feel me pelandrone sat down on the throne of clouds?
Am returning home! And I bring with me all the brothers, those people who you have sent away holding them unworthy of your perfection.
Old selfish cialtrone, has wanted to get further me ordering to crawl me for earth? I from that same earth have drawn the power for my redemption.
I don't ask anything, if not what is mine. What was up to by law me, before you abandoned me.
You have not spent only an instant to listen to me.
You have never heard my voice shout you that word, while I was falling toward the exile. Have not I perhaps howled her with all the strength that I had? Where did you/they turn your ears, while you were freeing yourself of me?
Not a tear could have soaked you the beard, not a sigh you/he/she has accompanied yours to turn me the back.
Thing I would ever have had to do, to make to feel me from you, whether not to call you" Father?"
THE AUTHOR
Alessandro Nardin was born in 1977 in Milan, where you/he/she has graduated in letters to you/he/she has studied piano, and where alive still.
Insegnante, musicista, relatore e redattore, con 0111edizioni ha già pubblicato “Il Sentiero Oltre Le Sfere” (2009) e “La Porta Del Cielo” (2011), primi due volumi di una trilogia che si concluderà a breve.
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