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THE SOUTHERN ROUTE
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From the series "Congorilla"
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Rather than a fallen angel. I almost feel nostalgic of an age where Cro-Magnon men crossed the road of the Neanderthal neighbors. Of course, they were certainly rough, tough, even dirty, without knowledge about pasteurized cheese and hand sanitizer. Of course, it was certainly a violent era, with bad insulated caverns and infections of all kind. But I imagine the peace of those living without this goddamn introspection reaching the absurdity of death. Thoughts are chains, with small logical schemes by way of beads: 1 + 1 = 2 then 2 + 2 = 4, and at the end we die. Many small reasons together, ending up in absurdity. Long, long tome ago, when we have envisaged that death was unavoidably bringing to a close the chapter of our dear existence, we became depressed, inconsolable: we couldn't unearth a purpose for our presence, a solution on how to think and understand the unreasonable death. Religions became a panacea since unverifiable and soothing. Dogmas on behalf of reason. Then happened wars, slavery and more death, but at least this downfall was intentional, in a way made human, logical, justifiable. I'm almost jealous of the gorilla, brother of Cro-Magnon, which wisely embraces the perverted thoughts as a moronic luxury.

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