Qualunquismo, cinismo, retorica. E chi scrive il romanzo collettivo del futuro?
Nessuno se ne accorge perché, con palese rispetto delle regole di una società liquida come la nostra, l’evento non è uno solo, tragico, evidente. Uno di quei cataclismi ai quali ci si può opporre tutti insieme, con un ritrovato senso civico. Nessuno se ne preoccupa, however, because the event has turned into little anecdote that, taken individually, have no sense except that of a daily chronicle of a useless curiosity gossippara. Yet, unfortunately, the fact still exists, and is all in one little phrase: the politics have committed suicide.
Here, we have said. The policy has been killed because he no longer believed its role and its function. He shot himself in the mood of any overdose, it was tangled in a lack of perspective, it was hanging on the rope of distrust, he fired a bullet of pure cynicism. So, what now passes for politics is only an ectoplasm of that that policy should be, an avatar of interests with others who act for the common good have nothing to do.
is why politics seems, every day, perhaps in contract, selling out for thirty pieces of silver. Because, in reality, politicians are no longer their job, no longer know their goals, their nature. Everyone, in this case is the right word, traitors who spend most of their energies to defend advantageous position to seek guarantees rather than opportunities. And so the policy is dead on the sacrificial altar of false belonging, of empty rhetoric, party interests, the lack of a destiny, a utopia. She committed suicide in the name of the bureaucracy, the current applications, careers. You forgot about herself and the only real reason they have the right to exist: to try to write that novel called collective future.
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