Ghosts exist. Today, ghosts are the godparents. Grandparents, grandparents, the elderly, the third age, the golden age… In four microseconds, they will be baptized as fourth, fifth, millennial age. As beautiful old age; domesticated, reposeful, symmetrical beauty; the spring cycle of well-managed maturity… They are even losing their name, their names. There is no longer an I. Spectral socialization exists. They are lost souls: no one sees them. No one wants to see them. Look.
The woman is put to bed at six in the evening. Until the next day, at ten, she cannot move. The caretaker comes from ten to six. The woman lives in bed. She has to live in bed. If there is something, she must press the nuclear explosion button. And they must open the door with a kick. All to move. Someone might say: but where are the children? It doesn't matter if there are children or not. They are alone. Only inside the house. Only in the city. Only in the world. Not even money counts.
The man was found with banknotes scattered everywhere. Thousands of euros. And thousands of objects, things, junk, junk, junk... Diogenes without philosophy. Diogenes without memory. Obesity, bulimia, from the accumulation of despair. Open the door: I can't. I can't. Unravel it. And that flood spreads, that rubinada of nothing, of no one.
Open the door to the man who, dressed in pajamas, crosses the street with a carton of milk in his hands. Like a colorless, spiritless Pink Panther. He sees nothing around him. No one sees him. A sleepwalker of loneliness. Then he can't get into the house. The keys are inside. Knock. Drill the door. Tomorrow more. Tomorrow more not knowing where he's going. Tomorrow more no way back into the house.
In cities, godfathers are trapped in apartments. They're their prisons. Dungeons, cages. Condemned to never leave or never knowing how to return. Prisoners of solitude. With a sentence of self-sufficiency. The daily noose. And they strangle themselves. Life, in the end, was this: a suicide allowed by all. The most silent, invisible, intangible death: that of a ghost.
Cities are castles of godfathers' ghosts. Impenetrable, impregnable, inexplicable, unspeakable fortified squares for beings who wish to be human. Are cities ready for grandparents? Is society aware of old age without beauty? Of retirement paid for with loneliness and nothing? Someone will say this is already a pandemic. No. It's a culture. We are culturally murderers. Criminals, executioners, hitmen of godfathers. There would need to be an Emergency Godparent Service (SEP). But it's not possible.
There's an emergency, but the emergency isn't visible. No sirens, no lights. When the murderer looks at the victim, he doesn't see himself reflected. He never sees himself. The being of today doesn't see the non-being of tomorrow. The young don't see the older. No one believes they'll be a godfather. The godfather is an advertisement for a man or woman with a wire-like smile on a trip to the Caribbean, Benidorm, and with a countenance of happy aniseed eternity. The godfather is a product: he's not a person. The godfather is a business: he's not a human being. The godfather is a ghost within the castle of ghosts. A ghost who has even lost his sheet. Lying down, stretched out, elongated. Naked. Naked. Death. Soon, even a marble (which will be PVC) without a name: "No one rests here."
