Memorias y libelos del 15M

One does not know whether to laugh or cry at the expectation that the 15M celebrates its tenth anniversary in this coronavirus period, in which the streets are barren and public spaces abandoned. The ease and at the same time difficulty of writing about 15M lies in the fact that it is the first mass assembly social movement that our country has had since Web 2.0 existed. The book that I would like to read about quincemeros should pick out the philosophical pearls of that ocean of data, unifying in a coherent and poetic story the information that today is scattered and forgotten in hundreds of wiki pages with broken links. But this is not that book... No work can exhaust the subject of the indignant, just as no voice can monopolize an assembly. It has to be the set of works and voices that recomposes the protean and contradictory face of 15M. That will only be possible if each one speaks from his personal 15M, from that little family god that he has worshiped or cursed for ten years, without pretending to arrogate the Truth with a capital letter on the quincemeros, but also without keeping anything in the inkwell. For that reason I have ventured to write these memories in the very strict first person confessional. Written from memory, mixing the personal with the collective, sabotaging my own reputation, earning the contempt of both friends and enemies of 15M, pissing off those who appear with their first and last names, this is not the book I would want to read, but the one I can and should write: an intimate chronicle of the year in which I went out the most, written from the year in which I was least allowed to do so.