One bad day, his heart attacked like the angry Moby Dick to Captain Ahab and we knew little more about him. Almost at the end he said that, deep down, he was still a child looking out to sea. On Saturday, mired in fear and uncertainty about the damned COVID-19 health alert, after dawn, another bad news came, the death of Luis Eduardo Aute, from whom we learned so much.

We learned, for example, that a photograph, like existence itself, is alchemy: an image in which two teenagers become strangers over time, but who will always have music. It took us to the imaginary world of Albanta that was no other place than childhood. He walked us through the southern seas on the way to the literary atoll of Vailima through which Hook and Don Ramón del Valle-Inclán walked.

I also got ten and four with lost and unrecoverable loves. I let myself go through there, I saw a light and there was no phone nearby, but I resisted the temptation to go up and I will always regret it. I asked a woman not to undress yet, to wait a little longer, to keep the dress, the traps and the flowers …; to later consider that somehow I would have to forget it, even if I lacked the strength and it was too late. And I even knew how cold the wax is from a kiss from nobody.

Many times I wondered what the hell is wrong with me today, that I can’t find out who I am. And I knew that it is easier to find roses in the sea than the meaning of life. That sea that a child was looking at and that was already guessed as a promise and seed of freedom.

Aute was long gone. His music, his poetry and his paintings will always remain, the reflection of the beauty he sought. And at the time of his departure I remember that, as he sang to us, only dying remains as the most immutable reason, that living is a burning nail, an exercise in joy and pain …; which basically is always on the go. But he will stay with us.