Every time I listen to a song from the ’60s, or I see an image, or a video, related to that wonderful period, I feel a huge melancholy inside me, a natural love, as if I missed all this, as if it were a slice of torn life, a burning memory that clings to my soul and whispers to me constantly: “I am part of you, in your DNA”. I do not really know where the fuck we are going to end after this existence, or what has happened before – if we will be just dust, or we’ll continue to live somewhere else, but I’m profoundly sure that if we had previous lives, I existed in those years. I was probably a young hippie of Frestonia, who lived life fullly every day, madly in love with freedom and anarchy, with an innocent subconscious, and then, on a cold winter night, I died stupidly as an anonymous Rock Star wrapped by hot water in an old half-rusty bathtub after a wild cocktail of alcohol and drugs, while in the next room a vinyl played “The House of the Rising Sun”.
Elena Caldera