Prologue to The Little Brother

Finally, yes, I yielded to necessity. I often wondered how long I could resist the stimulus, the temptation, and I delayed my response as if it had something to do with the uncomfortable or inevitable.

Because to admit the need for a blog, these days, is a bit like adopting the latest style, and I am ashamed to admit that over every trendy fashion hangs the suspicion of childishness. At times without discrimination. And so, as so often, I renege.

Eventually, circumstances overcame my stupidity, and I told myself: there are times when fashion saves and redeems us. We fill our lungs with oxygen when we feel overcome by routine, and find new paths, beautiful solutions.

Thus was born my abdication. And in consequence, thus arises The Little Brother. From the recognition that without our own voices, men strangle us in their thoughts. The cumulative thinking becomes a matter that needs expansion, otherwise it turns against itself, crashes against the cranial walls, and self-destructs.

To avoid this, we have our voice. Oral or written. Nut we need to use it. And if no one around you gives you a place to extend it, if all the parks and plazas are closed to you, if they prevent you from screaming or writing in a newspaper, something must be sought, no? The alternative word had become so essential that if we didn’t have it in our language, we would have to invent it.

So, I repeat, thus arises The Little Brother.

This blog is a view from below. A camera from underneath. But it is a view that doesn’t admit bandages nor tolerate disadvantages. Because even though Big Brother outweighs you, and even though he will put a lot of effort into stopping you (like the one who burned the scores of Johann Sebastian Bach, and didn’t let him play the harpsichord with freedom), the Little Brother has eyes to see.

And, fortunately, a clear voice, very sincere, that also knows how to speak.