Schizodemic

​First there was a virus, which killed because people were not treated in time, then there was widespread madness, linked to the anguish of death, which was nourished by a precise design of power. This Schizodemic, which was killing souls, was the product of years of study by the powerful, who had finally found a way to subdue billions of individuals, with ruthless propaganda that leveraged the innate death instinct of desperate people. She went into the garden, following the curves of the branches of the small sumac, observed the color of the leaves, a beautiful bright red and moved away from that strange feeling of heaviness that the situation had generated, sowing, in almost all the inhabitants of the Earth, the whirlwind of mourning and the loss of logical skills. Schizodemic was a precise instrument of political control, which aimed to make people stupid and distressed, therefore easily manipulated. It had nothing to do with a virus, since it was the virus itself. The peoples had to be split up. It was a psychosis on a world scale, a Schizodemic. They went on like animals, an unknown flock towards a much sought-after goal: the total submission of Humanity. The powerful had played their ace in the hole. Their entire political career was centered around the possibility of forever subjugating a myriad of individuals, for the final surrender. Schizodemic was the focus of their project. Reduce everyone to fear for an immense triumph. The people, for their part, had delegated their thoughts to those who should have known more than them and this could have turned out to be the fatal mistake. It was no longer thought. There were the diktats of television. There was that doctor who commanded the masses what to do and how. Human beings were losing control of their world and their individuality, in an inexorable Schizodemic. The peoples control project was advancing quickly, smooth as oil, without hitches. Non-thinking masses were heading towards the natural conclusion of their existential path: perennial slavery. Hardly anyone seemed to object. However, there were fringes of men and women who did not resign themselves. She, the sumac girl, was one of them. He didn't believe in TV. He didn't believe in social media. She reasoned proudly with her own head. You had to let Schizodemic enter you. If I hadn't left the door open, it would never have been able to enter. In any case, this new, terrible disease, widespread in all latitudes, was present and was acting on the consciences. Few rebelled, almost always locked in the secrecy of their homes. Schizodemic had changed the physiognomy of mankind, changing it forever. There were pockets of resistance that communicated with each other clandestinely. The sumac girl was part of it. He had a great self-love. She was proud of her dignity as a woman. She was not going to prostitute herself for any reason, trading a surrogate of happiness for her brilliant identity as a person. She was a shiny person, like others, scattered here and there, waiting, working hard and sweating for a New Age of Light. He cleaned the garden, gathered the dried herbs and admired his work. She was happy, even though she knew that outside her enclosure there was a terrible pathology, that Schizodemic which seemed to leave no escape for anyone. However, she did not give up, although the system seemed to have triumphed at all latitudes. She could not resign herself, since she was Beauty made person and Beauty cannot succumb to the sight of unprecedented meanness. The peoples were exhausted. Immense psychological effort to resist a media bombardment without solution of continuity. They called it Prosperity. It was prosperous only by the gain of a small part of humanity at the expense of many, who perished or struggled to make it to the end of the month. Schizodemic was the perfect virus for totalizing population control. The girl went into the house. He turned on the stereo to listen to a Bach Suite. She sat down on the sofa, after having prepared an herbal tea. He wondered if it was legitimate to hope, if it was still possible to believe in tomorrow, if it was plausible to be happy. She had always been dubious about the official narrative of the system, having questioned it from the first press conference and had always confronted her partner, a man for whom the smallest gesture of her beloved was pure poetry. The two had taken courage, always and they knew that unity was needed at that moment, otherwise Schizodemic would have hit them too, making them stupid. There was not only a virus in the city, but also a dangerous psychological drift linked to it, which was polluting the lives of many, in a truly lethal Schizodemic. You don't just die when your heart stops beating. We also die when the psyche ceases to exist and the thought is canceled. As long as there were resisters, the system would not have completely triumphed, so there was still a long way to go and great fortitude would have been needed to keep fighting. The sumac girl thought that Bach was the greatest composer in the history of music. She added, to herself: "Probably ..." ...