Ukraine’s Saturday victory was so predictable that Sunday would dawn as the day of intellectual superiority and their brethren would come out to celebrate it, but not en masse, because they would never accept themselves as such. The first was known even by the participants and those who are surprised show that they are unaware of the mechanics of a contest in which the quality of the songs weighs as much as the number of countries with which it shares a border, and right now Ukraine makes an emotional border with all of Europe. The second is an inescapable corollary: after each event that brings together the masses in front of the television, voices will inevitably arise announcing that they don’t see “it”, even if no one asks them.
We still carried in the prefrontal cortex the “hello, my baby-bé” Romanian —and except electroshock will always be there—, when the public prosecutors of leisure emerged to confirm their Eurovision indifference, not with a “I haven’t seen it”, but with a “I don’t see it”, in which “I” functions as an impassable wall between their superiority and your stupidity
As a soccer player I have muscle in those fights. I’m used not only to “I don’t see”, but also to the contempt for seeing it myself. A disdain that has caused fans for years to cling to the ode to Platko, Galeano and Camus, and to whatever intellectual validates our hobby, afraid to admit that it is not necessary to live on islands, palaces or towers, not even in pronouns, that sometimes there is no higher joy than living in a pass with the outside of modric. That it is not always necessary to extract profound lessons from everything. That, as Neruda wrote, and here I continue to validate myself intellectually through, “I do not ask bread to teach me but not to lack it”. And at the price of wheat, we are not to disdain any bread.
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