October 28, 2020

Shared Fictions | Culture | THE COUNTRY

Shared Fictions | Culture | THE COUNTRY

If you take a plane from the T4 in Madrid and you go to Lisbon, you will have to change the time, you will have to delay your watch for an hour. It is an hour gained to the Iberian Peninsula. It is an hour invented by man. I imagine that the same thing will happen to the Portuguese when they come to our country. There will be a town in La Raya where on a street it is 4, and in the street opposite it is 5 in the afternoon. There where there were only fields, forests, rivers, hills, mountains, we invented imaginary borders. Because the nations are based on romantic myths and fabulous beliefs. There are only trees and wild boars and stones and the breeze and birds.

If I could, I would tear down all borders. And I would do it not for libertarian zeal or for feeling a citizen of the world. I would do it because the fictions cause me terror. For it is also a fiction to say that one is a citizen of the world, a fiction that is said to correct another fiction, which comes from affirming "I am Spanish", or "I am French", or "I am Russian".

Nature does not know that in one place it is called Portugal, in another Spain, in another France. Our imaginary rites also usually bring us real and bloody problems. By defending the faith in these rites many human beings lost their lives. Let's look at the countries as if they were only space and matter. How beautiful it would be to return to nature what is yours. That the water returned, the mountain ranges, the clouds, the snow, the sun. Over time, I have become a strange man.

I can not say a word in Spanish if the person in front of me does not speak it. It's out of respect. Because languages ​​are also imaginary. We could return to muteness as an act of delicacy. If you do not speak my language, mute by universal delicacy. Looking into our eyes will be enough. We have two thousand years of imaginary history. There is no past. There are no nations. There are no laws. There is no freedom. We burn the words. Only the sun and the moon exist.

It is true that our pacts have worked, because we have created civilization. So I accept, on my plane, that I have to delay the clock for an hour, because my plane is landing in Lisbon. And I take off my watch, and I begin the rite of moving the needles in a sphere, and as the minutes run backwards, I think about how circular our conventions are.

I am now in Lisbon and I have a coffee. And I realize that I can pay in euros. How many centuries have they had to go through to make us realize that we can share our fictions? And although the euro is another imaginary entity, it is better if one shares it with millions and millions of human beings. Because the saddest part of a fiction is that it is a solitary fiction.


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