The new way of being is beating in our veins.
Sure they’re fickle when they rage about somebody fucking with their status update, their timeline and their tweets, but I like this Facebook generation nonetheless. They’re connected. They don’t want anybody to represent them. You don’t fuck with the back button of their lives. Their browser is their browser. Their networks are holy.
They don’t really know about the 60s and 70s dictatorship. They strut down avenues named after generals and torturers without a thought. And that’s okay. They’ve got their eyes on the future. This might be the first generation on Earth that’s looking only to the horizon. Some people fear that. They think it’s foolish. I don’t. I think they’re finally living what we’ve fought for so long to let go of. They will never be as young as they are today.
The conditions in the slums of Brazil are some of the worst in the world. There’s a lot of third world shit here. The protest might have started about transit prices but it ain’t about that now. We’re here because for the first time we can feel the new way of being beating in our veins. Eduardo Galeano said this shitty world is pregnant with another. I can taste it. I can feel it. I can even say that I’ve seen it.
He wasn’t more than 14 or 15. We were marching in São Paulo after dark. There were hundreds of thousands of us. This city is a jungle of concrete built for cars. To be walking in the middle of the road with the faded white stripes under our sneakers, rush hour on a Monday night, singing songs – that was something.
“Man, what a beautiful world we live in,” he said.
It’s something you feel when the lover in your arms is laughing and you feel like your heart is gonna break because there couldn’t possibly be any more room for good inside. The high begins to float you away. We were walking to the governor’s house, taking time along the way to talk, look at people waving white flags from apartment windows, listen to chants coming and going like waves in this sea of people. I looked into this kids eyes. He kept talking but I only remember those eight words. I was mesmerized by the shine is his eyes. Sparks. Flashes. Pulses. Bursts of light.
When the global revolution finally arrives . . . it’s going to shine everywhere like that.
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