In Greek mythology, Prometheus is the titan who dared to challenge the gods by stealing fire and giving it to mankind. For this act of rebellion and love for humanity, he was punished by Zeus: chained to a mountain, each day a vulture devoured his liver, which regenerated overnight. An eternal torment. Prometheus is the symbol of the man who disobeys out of conscience, who accepts pain to bring light, who is punished for having lit what was meant to remain dark. This text arises from that fire: the one that doesn’t warm hands, but keeps consciences alight. From pain that becomes struggle. From the wound that does not extinguish, but awakens.
The pain I feel has ignited the fire. The eternal fire that keeps alive the consciences of the most untamed humanity. Chained to the mountain of truth, I see the vultures with their clean faces circling around me, in a well-established ritual, ready to tear me apart. But my entrails will be reborn. And it will be too late to control the flames that smoldered beneath the ashes of my rediscovered spirit. The fire of the father, who remembers his ancestral role. The fire of one who has lost everything. The fire of one who seeks justice. The sacred fire that only pure souls can guard in the chest of the Love that moves the sun and the other stars.
Whoever challenges the system today is like Prometheus. Whoever opposes the utilitarian drift opposes — in essence — the vultures who want to silence him. In the name of humanity, alone, facing a monstrous system amid general indifference, he manages to give meaning to his own existence. Not because he will win, but because he will have kept the fire. For the generations to come.