Took a few days-indeed, almost the same as for thousands of people focusing on the Puerta del Sol and other gates of Spain, remembering the fable of José Saramago is born of a utopian occurrence: what if, after counting of ballots in a country that provides regular vote of its citizens and that's why they call themselves "democratic" is that over eighty percent of voters opted for abstention, to show the ineptitude and everlasting and the discrediting of their politicians?
is encouraging the suspicion that occasionally resemble reality like the fiction and even likely appropriates their fantasies more daring, now seems less crazy to me yesterday a dream of a youth-yes, especially of youth, which is not so numb or so blind as they say, of a youth known to be essential for the triumph of what we call progress social, of a youth seated intuition that their mass and their slogans always necessary to revive the seeds of rebellion from his grandparents, the rebellion that no one ever knows better than itself wielding youth.
I still do not know what I'll do on Sunday when I approached the casket to give the opinion that I am asked for the schedule demands it, I must be one of those undecided voters who shuffled daily polls. But what is certain is that 'll come with renewed confidence, because now I believe that all is not lost, because now I feel represented by the attitude of resistance of these young people and older people add them to shout enough is enough, and I will win the pride close to being able to finally hear from their throats the flow of outrage for so long silenced.
The unique Portuguese novel that is his approach, his knot and its aftermath. What happens next Sunday has already begun to happen, and branches in each and every one of the voices coming out into the street and express their truth and hope I get back.
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