Since today is the end of our vacation, before I get out of bed I reach out and put Chopin's Funeral March on the Sonata in B-flat minor on my phone. I'm a little sleepy, I don't know if it's a joke or a statement of intentions. I turn up the volume so that the music can be heard throughout the house and the surrounding area, I want to publicize the holiday existential collapse: packing will be an undisguised tragedy. The chords of the Polish genius, with that repetitive and deep rhythm, wonderful and beastly, in a matter of seconds, invade everything. what power The waves curl between the sheets, climb up the legs to the neck. I think it's hard to swallow.
This music contains too much penetrating emotional charge, I didn't remember it being so dangerous. I feel things in my chest. I hear the purring of a cat in zeal. One breathes a jungle sorrow. Will I start crying? Will we all end up crying this morning, shaken by this deadly musical potion? The piece progresses in the funeral lament. In the house next door, the cry of a baby is heard. creature The thing is getting out of hand. You can't play around with Chopin. You underestimated the genius, I say with a sailor's knot in my gut. But how is it possible that with only the combination of four notes, it achieves such a devastating effect? What is the mystery?
There is no longer any escape, this short funeral melody screws into the mind and infects the neurons, which repeat it silently, obsessively, for hours, or days. We know of a guy who ended up walking around in a wasteland humming the Funeral March until he collapsed. Let no one start listening to this masterpiece of sadness now to prove it, in an irresponsible way. For my part, it will be better if I get out of bed and face the game. This music is artistic abuse. I don't know if reportable.
Already on the highway, the first stop at the service area brings you down to the reality of a mastegot. Especially if, as is natural, the conglomerate is in the middle of a good drought. The views are lethal. There are people who fantasize about being abandoned in a service area. like a dog Or like one of those tropical parrots that chatter too much and come and find out what happened to it. Mature people who fear these kinds of things usually have, inside their chests, that wounded child that has been talked about so much lately in therapy. There is an army of wounded children in the heart of the population. Be that as it may, in these moments of irrational fear in the lavatory of a gas station, it is not superfluous to visualize Julio Cortázar and Carol Dunlop, when they lived for 33 days in service areas of the motorway in the South of France, of their own free will; to experience the matter (with large doses of laughter and whiskey) and write Los autonautas de la cosmopista. A book that, by the way, should be compulsory for sale at all petrol stations. Fortunately, almost any service area is haunted by the ghost of some genius, ready to laugh at you.
