REFLECTIONS ON THE AID INDUSTRY

I need a muse.

She shall come as a goddess, with broad wings and white feathers.

She shall incarnate as a youth, with fair skin and golden hair.

As she descends from the heavens, she shall place the laurel wreath upon my head and I shall be instantly blessed by her touch.

She shall instill in me the knowledge of everything to which I am oblivious:

She shall educate me on the ways of the land which I have been harvesting for decades;

She shall teach me the secrets of the springs which brought life to my ancestors for centuries;

She shall inspire me with new customs and manners of which I am ignorant;

She shall build my capacities and raise my awareness, like a female Buddha or Jesus;

She shall sensitize me to condemn my harmful cultural practices, like an apostle, unveiling the sacred gospels of life, enlightening me while exposing me to categorical imperatives, binding me to newly found normative obligations and ecclesiastical commitments.

She shall not only tell me who I am, but also who I need to be.

She shall give meaning to my life: meaning which it lacks until the moment in which she discovers me and calls me her own.

And in this revelatory moment of apotheosis, she shall know me, and I shall know truth.

And once I know her, I shall be hooked.

I shall become powerless under her narcotic spell.

And once she leaves me, all I shall do is wait, idly and humbly, for her return.