I have decided to close the doors of resentment. I confess that hatred has lost its old, sterile prestige for me. Before, perhaps, I could justify it as a legitimate response to the harshness of the world; today I understand that directing that energy towards another is an exercise in vanity that only distracts us from the center. We get lost in the bifurcated branches of criticism, pointing out other people's conditions or blaming the ghosts of the day, when in reality we are running away from the only conversation that matters. No more. I have hung up the weapons of complaint.
Yesterday, while surrendering to a modern fable of stars and lightsabers—that contemporary mythology that sometimes hides ancient truths—Master Yoda pronounced a sentence that might well have been whispered in the margins of an hermetic text or in the courtyard of an infinite library:
Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, and hate leads to suffering.
Hearing it, I understood that this chain is not linear, but circular; an emotional race that bites its own tail. If suffering is the final bill we pay for having accepted fear as a tenant, then pain does not come to us from the outside, but is an architecture that we ourselves build, brick by brick, with our own unmanaged emotions.
That is why, faced with the spectacle of others' suffering, the question that hits me is not new, but the same one that has followed my steps and my sleepless nights: What can I offer to the one who has reached the center of the labyrinth and lost the thread? What word, what gesture or what truth can serve as a refuge for those who have exhausted their ability to believe, to give them back the light that the world has dimmed?
It is not simply about inviting them to believe in
. We know that the world is full of cheaters. There are honest souls who devote themselves fervently to noble causes, only to discover that those causes were mirages, wrapped in pseudo-philosophies that trap us, disorient us and, finally, empty us. To believe in idols of clay or completely hollow doctrines is to get lost in a map that does not correspond to the territory.something else
What could I say, then? I, who am just a simple composer, a weaver of melodies who tries to arrange chaos into staves and digital programs.
In the language of music, which is older than betrayal and more sincere than words, is where I found the answers. Music does not lie; music is a guiding thread that leads us back. And what I found was not a complex treatise, but a simple, loving and naked truth. A sustained note that resonates in the chest:
You must believe in yourself. Believe in yourself. Believe.
Because when all external truths vanish, when ideals show their fragility and promises their falsity, there remains one last inviolable territory: ourselves. Believing in oneself is not arrogance. It is perhaps the most revolutionary and silent act we can perform. The purest and most necessary act of faith. It is recognizing that, in the vast labyrinth of existence, we are both the compass and the walker.
