Brazil, after the fall, decay

By Hildegard Angel, on your blog and for the Journalists for Democracy

Brazil is in intensive care, in a terminal state. Chloroquine and soda are no longer effective. There's not even an opportunity for resuscitation. We are already under palliative care, receiving doses of morphine, in a fruitless attempt at a painless death.

We have reached the ultimate stage of impossibility. A country is its people. A country is its nature. When the lives of the people matter, much less the lives of nature, and on the contrary, the State is the promoter of its disintegration, all that remains for us is to pray for a serene and painless passing.

It's as if the country has already thrown itself from the top of a 30-story building, falling at a speed proportional to its weight as a continent-sized nation. There's no stopping the impact of the fall, with all its parts shattering. The next mission will be to gather the pieces, clean up the disaster area, inventory the damage, and hold those responsible accountable, submitting them to an International Court.

As happens in wars, where the enemy is subjected to public expiation, in Brazil, the enemy is the ruler himself and his cronies. Their only alternative is to lock themselves in their bunker and inject massive, lethal doses of chloroquine into their veins.

Brazil, a body already in an advanced state of decomposition, where the greenish hue is not that of our forests, but produced by the foul-smelling gases of intestinal bacteria, and its grandeur is not territorial, but rather that of the swelling of the putrefied abdomen, attracting flies that lay their eggs, accelerate decomposition, bother the guests at the wake, and producing voracious worms that feed on the rot.

Worms without ideals or ideologies, multiplying, enriching themselves, penetrating every orifice, occupying all spaces, positions, functions, and centers of power. They digest privileges, benefits, perks, and bonuses. 

A government composed of people who have no reputation to uphold, nothing to lose, and nothing to offer. Roasted, manipulated, and humiliated, the clueless Regina Duarte is now replaced by a last-row actor, whose only memory of his face is from an underwear commercial.

Perfect for a position where your only task will be to do absolutely nothing but brains. Instead of a manager, a cultural guillotine. Just as, in the environment, instead of seeds, chainsaws multiply, and in healthcare, deaths are generated in geometric progression.

Intrigued, all that remains for us is the comfort of imagining, in a game of contentment, that the military is there merely as part of a patriotic task force, attempting to awaken the numb giant before it's too late, under the effects of a well-given "goodnight Cinderella" drug, doped so that all kinds of abuses can be perpetrated against it, the rape of our sovereignty, of science, of culture, of education and, as the main objective, of the Constitution.