After your futile attempt to be indifferent to the world and the world indifferent to you, you’ve finished your studies in sociology at the university. You are not 25 anymore, in fact you has exceeded the 30. You work with no time to wander aimlessly through the city, but the mirror of your room still shows the scars on your face and the ashtray still on the edge of your table, full of cigarettes. You try to stay outside the course of days and hours, as before, still in your attic. You did not have dreams then either you have them now; You know that you would have never met. Your indifference has given way to another feeling.

You hate. Hate with no violence, no aggression, no particular reason. To the people who crowd into blazing sun buses, looking for a seat, which await the final night of the day, people huddle in the subway at rush hour, sweating hours of work or lack of punctuality. You do not hate anyone in particular, someone more than the rest, but the uniform mass that accompanies you everywhere with their different but always the same faces and always forgettable. The elders who have been through it all, children who know nothing, to young people who think they know everything, adults who think that everything aloud. The rich, the poor, the middle class, the upper class; each of your congeners. You don’t know them, but you know you don’t need to know; It gives the impression, at least, because of treatment they dispensed to you in any supermarket queue, in parks or in the streets, that they feels no esteem about you, that everything is reciprocal.

The Man Who Sleeps (postgraduate) 1

You tell yourself every day that you do not hate them by a superior reason or another, because it is a matter of impossible indifference, because it is what you would like to feel at all these people around you, looking at you, judging and criticizing your lack of initiative, education or life experience; In short, your lack of ambition, your inability to be made of the paste that modern society is asking for.

You spend hours and days in your room, lying on your trusty bench narrow (that bed attempt), wishing to stay there except to go to empty movie theaters and watch another film similar to a previous one, but the reality is always stronger than you. Your indifference turned into hatred every time is closer to distaste for what life has to offer, so you have to offer to life. You have forgotten your friends, they also to you, in spite of them, because of them. You don’t follow anyone’s advice, you don’t want to hear anyone recommending, telling you it’s good to keep friendships just in case. You are not attracted by interest as a reason, it is not in the way you are. You do not want contacts to encourage entrying into the labor market, you don’t want to compete against anyone for anything, because you don’t aspire to anything.

The Man Who Sleeps (postgraduate) 2

You hate those who collect, you hate those who give. Those who forgive but not forget, who forget and nothing else. You hate those sane and insane, to outsiders and natives. To God, theoretical guilty of your inexplicable and meaningless existence, to your country and the King, also to the Republic. To the reactionaries in the pub, revolutionaries on the couch, everyone without exception. And you hate to the indifferent ones, just as you are.

The Man Who Sleeps (postgraduate)

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