The miles and miles of canvas are like a saggy skin. Not perfectly spread but covering Suicidio in its entirety. Without the canvas Suicidio would just be several blocks of wooden buildings in the middle of the desert, drenched by nothingness and dried and cracked by the sun. The canvas is a barrier that isolates Suicidio’s contents from the desertic landscape and creates a self-contained universe below it.
Suicidio is like a black, giant tick with its head turned inwards. It doesn’t care about what happens outside. It’s too busy sucking itself dry. Suicidio’s function is to discourage the soul from remembering about hope, about the distracting elation from fleeting and colorful moments, like seeing a robin pulling a worm from the ground and dashing away. Its function is to plunge the thought in wet hollows. Outside the canvas, light, life. Below, Suicido, a city draped by the black of fabric, darkness, filth and depression.
I know that most people enter Suicidio thinking that some sort of hell awaits for them, sufferers burning in fire pits, red devils torturing with their tridents and claws, worms eating the eyeballs and crows pecking at the cheeks. However, the canvas is pulled aside long enough to let the cart enter in Suicidio, and soon after that all expectations are frustrated as the passengers step down and they are already inside a building, somewhere that looks like a porched driveway although it’s too dark to discern anything beyond a meter away, and there is a lack of imagery, the only illumination a candle jabbed into a candlestick nailed to a wall, burning by an open door. Maybe a sigh ensues, a shrug of shoulders, and in that moment of disappointment Suicido has already started its slow process of painting a layer of sadness on the previous layer of regret. No hurries to overlay the next coating of sourness. After all, no one in Suicidio worries about efficiency (well, maybe the Mayor does), it all comes down to results.