When he came you waited for him with a television occupying a central space in your house. At full volume.

You received it with music whose lyrics invited you to inhabit the night, expensive cars and the importance of knowing how to move your buttocks from left to right. At full volume. When his little hands learned to open and close their fingers, you put a cell phone with garish pictures on them. At full volume.

At bedtime, at lunch time, at dinner time, at boring time, at drawing time, at making models, at reading a story time, at plasticine, at the time of Mozart, at the time of the necessary silence, at the time of doing homework, at the time of speaking, at the time of the collage, at all those times you interposed a screen.

And why are you surprised then that he doesn't like to read, or paint, or draw, or make collages, or write stories; why are you surprised that he doesn't listen? Why are you surprised that he is not surprised?

You brought him into a world full of birds, rivers, mountains, musical instruments, poetry, silence, temperas, tools, board games, walks, turtles, horses, seas, fantastic stories, trees... but the screen wouldn't let him see the world.

Came to such a beautiful world? Did you travel so much in time and space to end up sprawled out on a couch staring at a screen?
What material will your dreams be made of?

The art, the landscape, the silence, the genuine music, the slide, the dawn, God, kneading bread, playing a guitar, kicking a ball, gathering worms, fishing, hearing silence do not make you a better person. But they show you that life is wonderful. And, hopefully, they teach you to plan a more just, less violent, more loving world. More amazing.

Wonder is taught and learned. An amazed person is a god who invents, at every step, the world.