The roman ghost - Brazil

[Apollo]

This is a translation written from portuguese to english. A draft forgotten in time.

The true nature of Brazilian society is nothing more than the remnants of cursed nobles who, out of greed and a lack of will—will in the noble sense of the soul, the will to create and define something worthy—left us what we have today. Just as the English used America to build and define a colony instead of just a point of extraction, the Portuguese used Brazil in the most senseless way possible: they simply used one of the best geographic positions in the world to extract resources instead of establishing a new empire. Portugal, a tiny and useless strip of land, could have become the new Rome, but thanks to its poor culture—shaped by nothing more than fat barbarians—we ended up with the real definition of a cage without bars: thousands of kilometers held together by nothing but a system of bureaucracy and criminality so massive that it isn’t just aggressive in the physical sense, but political, intellectual, linguistic, and cultural. What they created reflects their tribal and unrefined origins.

Enslaving and degrading people isn’t some uniquely Portuguese sin—this happened everywhere, even Africans captured their own. The difference with Portugal is simply their true ignorance of economics, because colonialism didn’t make them rich; it made them dependent on an unstable, genuinely poor economy ever since the first drop of sugarcane juice was squeezed out.

The Portuguese case mirrors perfectly the post-Roman world and its so-called victors, something you can apply to almost all of Europe, the Americas, and their religions. The world was killed before we even had the chance to see it alive. God is dead and we’re the ones who killed them.

 

[Apollo]

That feeling that everything is raw, infected, rotting, like I think a dog died close to where I live because no one cared, even when he was a good dog, wanting to get food as people walked past. Like a feeling that every interaction is actually folded like cold weather, like trying to sleep when the weather is cold and humid, making the sheets feel like someone peed there. Here, when you just don’t clean enough, insects and cockroaches appear out of nowhere; not taking a bath for a day makes you smell like a living corpse. Everything is alive and death at the same time, in a perpetual state of mental slavery it seems—they can’t see the future, and the present choices slowly poison them. It’s like never growing up, never maturing, never reaching responsibility, like you always get weaker, fatter, uglier. It’s a drag just to have the basics. Since everyone is evil and worshipping a dead god, the entire society is built upon who cares, let’s party next weekend, even if it means blowing up all the savings, getting in debt, being a slave to a shitty job with five kids depending on it, and getting cancer. All the consequences never hit; all the evil has no repercussions. The dog’s death has no meaning, the old lady rotting in the kitchen won’t matter. Someone could launch a nuclear bomb anywhere in Brazil and it still wouldn’t matter—people would go God bless us and fall asleep next Sunday.

Maybe I should start a quiet rebellion: to be a good Roman citizen among barbarians, maybe smiling at the neighbor, cleaning up the trash, feeding the stray dogs, helping people in need, talking with the girls in entry-level jobs, exposing corruption, standing up for others, forming alliances instead of getting aggressive at fat people.
God is dead, but that doesn’t mean I should act like he does.