House of Mirrors

In these troubled times identities were intertwined, not to make one, but because a political earthquake was shaking the world.

A game of fools, a game of mirrors where the convictions of yesterday became the uncertainties of today. Western societies facing an unprecedented destructuring where the political sanitary cordon having been broken had let the artisans of a new world rush in.

Henchmen with a Borgian profile, where congresses in perdition, which from the temple of Agora had only the appearance of it, wandered in their corridors, dagger in hand.

Sales representatives giving themselves shamelessly to the highest bidder, at the heels of an army of shadows ready to do anything to sow doubt and make people believe that the ignominy of lying was nothing more than a commodity to be consumed on the spot.

So long morals, welcome betrayals. The cards spread out on the casino table were scrambled and the dice loaded. Place your bets, no more bets.

This is how the liberals, having yielded to the sirens of the dictatorship, ended up to claim that all those who rose up against them, men and women asking only to be heard and wanting to recover their freedom, were none other than low-level conspirators, terrorists, even Nazis wearing a swastika on their chest.

A meticulously elaborate stratagem to better satisfy their purpose, establish their power and make all those who stand in their way carry their cross.

Thus the protesters of all stripes found themselves in the trap alongside a moribund far right, which in front of the boulevard opening up to it, was getting a makeover, thus becoming respectable, tending to democratize while the traditional parties, advanced with velvet steps, hardening their policy until becoming what their predecessors had fought, making the wolves of yesteryear the sheep of tomorrow.

A sort of revamped “Face Off” where the population playing the game of Hide and Seek without really knowing it, even more so, without a compass, was looking in vain for their Milky Way to guide their Exodus on the shady waves of an ocean without a shore.

The left-right divide, the democrats and traditional parties had made the bed of a third way, while stigmatizing it, in the meantime they were supplanting it.

Role-playing games where democracies were in danger of political death. “Democracies” on the edge of the abyss, provocative, playing with fire, calling on the peoples, without saying so, to take to the streets to do battle with it, to overthrow this game of skittles where the Eiffel ladies and other Statues of the Liberty could not recover.

Where these “democracies” would give birth to a creature that the “so-called” extremes, the height of irony, having played musical chairs in the place of these traditional parties, would be led to fight.

A Western world voluntarily plunged into darkness, into chaos. A world where the limelight illuminated only silhouettes lurking in the shadows, silhouettes more present than ever.


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Painting, “Snowstorm-Steamboat Off Of A Harbour’s Mouth”, by William Turner.

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