Persona: to die

Hi, my name is Golman, and I died today.

What if life was a legacy. And this tale is about to end. What is it that you have to offer as your act of love? What did you leave behind?

Diego Armando Maradona died last Wednesday, and still today there’s fresh informations about the reactions to his death. Many of deep appreciation to the different levels of magic that was displayed on the field, as a player. Many as the despicable traits of a society’s hetheropatriachy fumbling a dick around to disrespect, yet again, another woman. A agressor getting away with violence against a woman just because who he was. Unofficial children. Hitting a wife, underage prostitution client, and the list goes on an on. Just Yesterday, in a match in Spain that was leading one minute tribute to the football star, one brave player sat down, just like Pavernick, and got trashed in the social media. People can’t stand acts against the symbolism of someone stating: count me out of your party.

Well, count me out of these party.

I almost died today. Or I did already. One day, just like today, just like Diego on Wednesday, I won’t get up. I felt it in my brain this time. It was real. I was gone. Deglution, or some shit like that. I stopped breathing. My wife keeps telling me to go the doctor. But in pandemia, you think twice about going to the hospital. And even if you felt like it, they might not even take you. It’s a weird time to die.

But that’s not why I am here today writting these. The fact is that I am supposed to connect with you all somehow. And this here is my letter to the world to say: hey, I’m here, and I have something to say. There is so much noise around these days that it’s no longer clear if your voice will be heard or you’ll just drown trying to take your saving breath just beneath the surface, drinking your last sip of salty water to the grave.

I will be incinerated, I suppose. I have no way of knowing, but there’s no more space for dying. It’s a clear market boom. It’s a conservative market, but it is here to stay. If things get bad, the market booms. If things get better, natality booms: more clients. The dying market is a no brainner. People in that market somehow know. Whoever follows the money has seen what this profession has to offer.

Just this last Friday, in the middle of all these world commotion with Diego’s departure, I had to organize UP-rAIHSe citizen outreach event, where I was suppose to unite a group of people in serveral workshops to understand what we do in the education programme with the teams of healthcare professionals working on a given unmet need.

The event was a success, and yet, I died today.

So what about my legacy?

I might have some things under my sleeve that still have not yet been published entirely. And I need to come out a say it. Here I was.

Moreover, my dad is not going to be here for long, and the tribute I must pay to him is due to happen before he goes, one night, like I did tonight. I must hurry, the time is ticking. People are dying all over the place. Even more, nowadays, in pandemic circunstances.

Life is but a dream. But really, what is it we dream of?

I had a dream, it almost killed me.

I have a dream: it stills hold me.

I’ve had dreams: yet somehow I failed them.

I am a dream, yet nobody knows.

And this is my fault. I’ve kept it to myself. And now it’s time to end that.

Golman is the persona nobody knows. It’s a legend in the making. That of a futbolartist. Something that doesn’t really exists. And at one point, you’ll be judging my legacy with your final command: thumbs up, thumbs down.

I don’t care. I’am dead. But my dream deserves better.

My legacy is to tell you first about my father. And then about my dream.

But now it’s 02:02 in the morning of a working Monday. I’ve just died. I got up and wrote this, much like Pedro Paramo, to kill the last breath of my procastination and show you where you could start to stare at this legacy of mine that’s not yet been shown.

My voice’s been kept silent. I’ve humbly stood aside. But now that I’m gone, I can finally come out to dance among the death. To hunt you down like a ghost inside a haunted castle. I wonder my modernist hospital still awaiting for something new to happen there. Yet no one sees to it. Nobody cares about anything but surviving. And work is falling down like the London Bridge. Or is it the Tower Bridge?

It doesn’t matter. I’m still dead. But you still don’t know me. You don’t know if to hate me or praise me. I am, unlike Diego, a nobody. And my actions have not been taken as a moral standard by anyone. But if I was to beat that last breath above the surface and my persona would be place under the spotlight, then you would have a chance to judge me down. You might not like a particular thing I say. You might not like the tone of my remark. You might think I overdid one bit. You might say: this guy is clearly a dick. This machoman’s act should be pointed out sternly. Count me out of this little party.

Well, count me out too.

I’m dead.

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