Mr.Clemenceau suggested during the course of some circumstance to vote for the dumbest one.
To confer the privilege of first place, the leadership, to a person whose abilities did not exceed the subaltern views.
It is true that countless analogies can be drawn within the areas in which we unfold our lives of refined bipedals, scenarios where there’s no doubt in considering rational to the human life.
A rational life as long as we do not face the thoughtlessness of instinct.
But where’s the man who has not desired the pinnacle of first place with his teeth more than tightened.
Yes, the jump over the wall of the grayish mediocrity!
A joke to the fate… The fate of being part of the great statistics, as intangible and omnipresent as on a Kafka’s novel.
And although the full response hardly could be answered by the wittiness of our minds, we usually think we are for something more in life.
But if we refused to believe it, the flattery of old demagogies are at hand:
The politicians ones, for example, which are always extolling the defects of harebrained majorities.
The unbearable and daily compliment of mercantilist intersts, which only strive for our purchasing capacity, it isn’t different at all.
Whatever it is, the temptation of “il primo posto” has made accelarate, at some instant of life, my bloodstream.
The sophistry of “avant-garde” has reached with its ideals many of my aspirations.
I have been brutalized by the singing of the false premises which roared the abettors of New Orders.
I’ve blindly believed in the liturgies of the dogmas which placed me on the cusp of some chincy craving.
I’ve known of the arrogance impertinence for believing myself in possession of the number one engraved on my forehead.
I do not know if I’ve led a flock… I can say, sure and vehement, that I never looked back to make sure that someone was following me…; but better yet, know if somebody walked by my side.
I’ve been raised to sidereal heights by the minutiae of exclaiming some hidden thought.
Yes, just because of the number one on my forehead and on my back too, I felt the desperation of the irreparable, smiling recklessly.
And I was not afraid of those folks, my followers, were just a sort of grotesque caricature of my most lucid thoughts…, a multitude of wills only able to harmonize in the comfortability of the amount, a kind of amorphous miscellany, shapeless…, overwhelmingly captivating.
“Hybris” called the ancient greeks to the sin of swagger, of excess…, of hyperbole and vulgar eulogies.
Trapped into a mess of first order or simply opening the gates of heaven, only remains for me to make my warmest request so that Mr. Clemenceau’s suggestion does not propose to myself as a candidate.