It took Mediaset a long time to admit what critics had long been saying: the channel’s flagship shows were, in truth, nothing more than trash TV. When the decision finally landed to shut down Sálvame, it came as a relief to many who had grown weary of its constant churn of sensationalism. The same stubborn impatience that marked the British crown during its own coronation mania resurfaced here, a carnival atmosphere that felt loud and hollow to spectators who could see through the spectacle. The narrator recalls a moment when belief and doubt mingled, as if a few accidental drops of lysergic brightness had colored a coffee that should have stayed ordinary. After the ceremony, there was a habit of retreating inward, attempting to find calm through meditation, hoping to quiet the noise that had settled in the mind. Yet the crown of Carlos lingered, an image that refused to fade, a heavy weight weighing on the senses and the thoughts alike. The obsession around it was palpable, a messy, almost comical pile of superstition and duty that pressed down with insistence, making the whole scene feel suffocating to witness.
From a distance, the physiotherapist emerged as a practical counterpoint. He treated pain with a calm routine and a Zen-like detachment, suggesting that intention sometimes spoils the simple act of healing. He spoke of doing what must be done without attaching any motive beyond relief itself. This stance seemed paradoxical at first, a tension between purpose and emptiness that tugged at the mind. The patient asked whether payment could occur without intention to pay, and the response arrived with a wry smile and a dataphone in reach. The man urged that money could come in any form, as long as the obligation was met, yet he added that paying without a clear aim might carry a deeper therapeutic value. The idea tasted like a ridge of insight, a hint that meaning can be found in the act rather than the motive behind it.
There is a quiet admiration for the way the mind perceives intention, a conviction that intent shapes experience just as surely as circumstance shapes fate. The narrator found himself considering Kafka’s Transformation, wondering if the author ever wrote with a specific purpose in mind. Instead, the work seemed to exist because a void compelled its creation, a paradox that made the piece feel more truthful, more alive. The thought lingered as a reminder that art often arises from aimlessness, taking shape in the moment when one stops trying to force it. The mind reflected on the stubborn crown and the stubborn will to meditate, wondering whether control is merely an illusion or a tool that can be wielded with care.
The narrator admitted a struggle to meditate while the symbol of Carlos still hovered in consciousness. The crown remained perched upon a mental head, and the effort to remove it could not proceed. The scene stretched over two days, a period during which ordinary life continued to stumble into extraordinary imagery. Walking down the street with the invisible, there was a strange sense of embarrassment that never materialized in the eyes of others, because the presence was unseen, a quiet perplexity that gave the neck a stiff ache from the pose of attention. Then, two hours earlier at a conference about literature and Valium, there was a moment of release. The mind found a window to loosen, and when it opened, the crown dissolved from view. The relief was not dramatic but gradual, a subtle shift that came when thought stopped forcing a particular outcome. The body sighed, and the self felt renewed, as if a long-held tension finally gave way to ease. In that moment, the physiology appeared to behave like a patient saint, answering a question with silent, persistent grace.