There are days when, instead of me being the one inside the world, It’s the world that’s inside of me. I get out of bed with the world inside and it hurts with the dull pain with which the entrails ache. Unamuno, who did not know globalization, only hurt Spain. That’s nothing: he is removed with an aspirin. But the pain of the world, with its gold mines, for example, where the poorest people on the planet work, is not relieved even by an ibuprofen capsule every six hours. I carry the world, with all its gold mines, within me. Recently, in one of Arequipa, in Peru, 25 workers died. They were down there, in a narrow gallery, I don’t know how many meters deep, when a fire broke out. Where do you come out of a burned gallery? Nowhere: you die like a mole whose burrow has been doused with gasoline and then thrown a burning rag. I also feel the death of these moles within me on the days when I wake up with the world inside.
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