Let Them Invent

Forget Silicon Valley sunshine and skinny jeans, amigo. In Spain, tech wasn’t some chrome and glass cathedral, it was a roach motel for the soul. A graveyard for authenticity. Unamuno, this Basque barfly philosopher, saw it clear as mescal on an empty stomach. “Let them invent,” he rasped, a flamenco guitarist of existential dread accompanying his every word. A poisoned chalice he thrust at his pal Ortega y Gasset, another intellectual tangled in the barbed wire fence of modernization. This wasn’t a debate, it was a bloodletting with typewriters. They were slicing open the Spanish psyche, and this “Let them invent” was the pus that oozed out – a toxic cocktail of fear and resentment. See, in Unamuno’s fever dream, Spain wasn’t some dusty museum, it was a cauldron of raw, untamed life. Tech threatened to douse the flames with a bucket of cold logic, and Unamuno wasn’t having it. He craved the passionate chaos, the existential angst, the very things these soulless machines would render obsolete. This “Let them invent” echoed down the callejones, a deranged mambo echoing off crumbling cathedrals. It was a declaration of war, a howl against the sterile future. Unamuno, the poet-philosopher with a chipped tooth and a heart full of fury, was taking a flamethrower to the circuits of the modern world. Buckle up, we’re going for a ride.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *