High-tech portraits

Shakhar28

Death written like this with a capital letter carries an unbearable vanity. The same one that We drag written like this with a capital letter. Because we are made in his image and likeness no matter how much we try to ignore or deny it. You leave home one crazy day holding on to your latest generation mobile phone that totem of our contemporaneity you cross the street which is a river of rainwater. You arrive at the boardwalk and prepare to take a selfie with a five-meter wave before it breaks against the rocks because you understand that life is an indestructible appetite and technology is your ally. You have the frame the grandeur the weather the adrenaline pumping and just when you are going to take the photo of the stupid technical vanaglory

Death sneaks into your focus and steals your foreground. You don't go out anymore. You are already in the violent limbo of the water clinging to your high-end mobile phone. I am lucky to keep a photograph of the teacher and the disciple that I took one CXB Directory morning lost in the staff room. I took that photo with the most sophisticated machine that a human being possesses: individual memory. The common denominator is the infantilism in which we have lived since we became jaded consumers. The difference is that Death is a very cruel girl without empathy and our childhood innocence is directly proportional to our pride and certainties. Death as a metaphysical activity as a boring ghost loves close-ups. Your narcissism is the true infinite algorithm: cutting-edge technology. Her arrogance can far surpass ours.



He takes advantage of any loophole to sneak into the photo of our lives because he loves to attract attention just like us. It doesn't matter to him to appear in the simplicity of a selfie in the tearing of an ICU in the evil of a car bomb or nesting in the heart of an abused woman. He was years old and woke up asleep dreaming dead. There are days when Death takes the initiative and decides to take a selfie with you in the solitude of the bedroom in the appetizing silence with heartbeats; in the intimacy of the darkest darkness with the flash of youth. It is her favorite photo with the children of the gods. And she poses like a diva and comes out beautiful and different with a cry of life in her new mouth because he was beautiful and different with a cry of life in her mouth as a synonym for struggle. The fight for Barojian life. The class struggle. A classless society. There have always been classes. The enthusiastic and subjugating myth of communism. And the misfortune that seeks her non-negotiable hole in a newly carved body. The reality of our lives no matter how sophisticated we try to make it behaves like an animal outdoors: it is amoral.