• Itxu Diaz
• On December 5, 2024
• http://www.itxudiaz.com

Blue atmosphere, tequila and salt, and a garden in the soul. It is the time when the sky throws squid ink over the city of the lighthouse. Silence in the neighborhood, this humidity leaves us breathless, and sharp songs in the heart. Your eyes are there at the end, two lightning bolts of a storm of beauty, like an antidote to any melancholy. And it sounds in my head Something special by Dorian. “Sometimes everything goes wrong,” Marc sings, and it’s true, but I find it more sincere to admit that “we all break down in our souls.”

There are ephemeral songs, unconscious music, and others that don't even touch the edge of feeling. There are records that elude you, others that you turn your ear to, there are those that bore you, and a lot of them get you up quickly and let you down after a few weeks. Records that are short-lived. They have their moment, I suppose, and it's not tonight. On the other hand, sometimes it happens: someone sings, leaving their skin in tatters, and it hits you right in the chest. Something special It is a song to stay and live in, to dive and lose the thread, to die stranded on the beach with the first light of dawn, when what once hurt no longer hurts, but you refuse to bury the ashes, and you let yourself be swept away by the treacherous current of other times.

Sometimes it is bitter to recall the days with a vocation for eternity, the plans with which we wanted to conquer chimeras. From the memory arises a concern - where will you be? - that Dorian takes care to calm: “On this boulevard of broken dreams / Nothing of us remains.” Even the moon knows it, which has not come out to see us walk today.

It is true that I am reminded of photographs that we did not know would matter, your words were as precise as the metrics of the madmen of the Golden Age, and some dreams that were not fulfilled. In the aftermath of the tears I provoked, I finally cling to the Impossible futures, And I notice that the severe expression of someone who has made a fortune by leaving oblivion to forget is drawn on my face. Only a sparkling, calm look rescues me from the flames, brings me back to the unmarked calendar, the spicy smile of rum, and the faint beat of sadness fades away in the start of Slow motion: “Like a star hanging in the sky / Like a goddess come from the ice.” Maybe it’s because there’s always something special on the other side of the fog of the soul.