The Circus Magician

Once upon a time, in a forgotten town, a circus arrived unannounced. It brought no elephants, no trumpets—only a thin man in a dark hat with a few suitcases. No one ever knew where he came from; some said the desert, others the sea. I, in silence, suspected he came from hell itself.

At first, it was only spectacle: smoke, mirrors, rabbits appearing from nowhere, words that seemed to possess their own power. The townspeople, overwhelmed by their daily miseries, watched it all as one who finds a crack of light in a sealed room. It was easier to be deceived than to face the truth.

The magician soon discovered he received more than applause: he received devotion. And one night, feigning humility, he said:

—I cannot refuse the people's call. If they want me as their guide, I shall be.

Thus the circus ceased to be entertainment and became government. The tent occupied the center of life, and each day was a performance. Those who did not applaud were marked as enemies. It became normal to call those who left "worms." Few noticed that among them went doctors, bankers, teachers, dreamers.

The magician repeated:

—We do not want them; we do not need them.

And the crowd's echo confirmed it.

Then came the list. No one ever knew if it was law, advice, or whim, but all obeyed it as if it were divine mandate:

The circus, born as diversion, transformed into temple. The tricks no longer amazed, yet they kept everyone within the tent. Though many knew they were deceptions, they preferred silence: it was safer to play along than to stand outside, in the cold.

Over time, the magician forgot even the art of sleight of hand. He no longer needed rabbits or doves: his true magic was having convinced an entire town that living inside the circus was the only possible life.

Decade after decade, the tent frayed. The lights did not extinguish completely: they flickered, like tired eyes refusing to close. The floor, once dusty, became mud of stale dampness. The overflowing garbage gave the air the stench of rotten fairgrounds. Scarcity became silent violence: people fought over scraps like starving beasts, forcing smiles while breaking teeth in silence.

In the magician's few newspapers, all went well. The television's smile contrasted with sad faces at crowded bus stops, where hundreds waited for buses that never came. The radio announced blackouts as though they were natural weather. And yes, people were allowed to complain about the rains, but not about the storm that came from the circus itself.

Yet the magician remained, painted smile intact, repeating the same old tricks. Most disturbing was that applause still came. Some sincere, some fake. And the more lucid, learning to see through the smoke, finally understood that the trick was no longer illusion, but habit.

I jolted awake. What a nightmare! Seeking sunlight, still dizzy from the memory's hangover, I looked out the window and there it was, on the gray building across the way, a dark, faded, enormous sign:

VENCEREMOS!

Every system of domination knows that violence is costly and fragile. Far more efficient than weapons is the pedagogy of custom: teaching obedience without noticing you obey.

There is no need to prohibit all gestures of freedom: just repeat the norm long enough until it seems like climate. The most effective lie is not one imposed, but one that becomes landscape.

The crowd learns quickly to imitate itself. It applauds not because it believes, but because silence is too visible. Dissent ceases to be opinion: it becomes risk. Thus political power need not watch every corner, because it has succeeded in installing in each individual the suspicion that everyone else is watching.

And a point arrives where discourse and rhetoric no longer matter: what keeps the regime standing is inertia. Repetition is stronger than conviction, and habit stronger than fear.

There is no magic in this. It is calculation. Power perpetuates itself because it makes the crowd confuse its own stillness with loyalty.

The clearest example is not found in history books or philosophy treatises: it is the image of an entire people enclosed beneath a canvas, applauding a magician who long ago forgot his tricks.

That magician may change names or faces, but the choice remains always the same.

Power endures while we continue applauding.

The ending (and beginning) depends on you—on you alone—choosing to stop. No one else will do it for you.