daydreaming

there is magic out there, and sometimes, if we’re lucky, we get to feel it run through our skin and set our souls on fire.

The children daydreamed as they played in the garden, surrounded by fluffy dogs, scattered toys, and colourful piñatas, conjuring imaginary worlds where castles rose atop clouds of fantasy.

Los abuelos daydreamed as they rested, sipping on the familiar taste of their favourite café con leche, surrounded by those who came after them—a living legacy, echoes of their own reflections. Not too long ago, they held them by the hand, raising them with stories of a life well lived.

Nosotros, the ones in between, daydreamed of remembering the rules of the game that in the bliss of youth meant everything—only to leave it behind one day, without warning. Somewhere between recess, bedtime, and the childhood friends who taught us how to play—friends we never saw again. We daydreamed of what it would feel like to reach the twilight of a life well lived, having made peace with our demons y con un corazón contento. Our bodies, perhaps a little more weary, yes, but also standing proud and wise—having made it this far, full of stories, tears, and laughter, all of which have now left their trace in the wrinkles of our skin.

Today, reading both sides of the script, I’m learning that the journey from childhood to old age is shorter than I once thought—that it stretches straight ahead, only to bend along the way, tracing an almost perfect circle towards the end. Perhaps that’s why, now that I find myself somewhere in the middle, just as things begin to curve, I think back to a time when life moved a little too fast for me to daydream.

In January, I turned 31. I celebrated surrounded by family and the everlasting cold that makes the first days of the year feel eternal. This year, there was no big party until dawn, no escape to the beach, no midnight swim. Instead, my 31st birthday was the culmination of a much-needed pausa—the sum of weeks spent at home, in the company of some of my favorite people, los que me vieron crecer y soñar despierto.

It felt like a celebration that trickled in slowly for weeks, until it overflowed, filling my heart and soul con calor, cariño y apapachos. El regalo perfecto. Perhaps that’s why, unlike other birthdays, where the fear of missing the train of life creeps in, I spent this one at peace—happy, accepting that life isn’t about chasing after time. It’s about taking it in and diving into its deep, magical waters, the way we did back when we knew nothing else.

As a child, I lived almost entirely in the present, gliding like a paper plane, eagerly searching my newfound world for an antidote to boredom. I wasn’t the most patient or reflective—I was too young to understand, in the innocence of my early years, the weight of the past or the pull of the future. I knew there was a difference between yesterday and tomorrow, but I didn’t yet grasp how some lived outside of today, clinging to fading memories or uncompromising dreams.

Some years later, that changed. And while my planning habits have surprisingly still not fully developed, not too long ago, I too found myself drifting—at times almost completely—between the shores of yesterday’s nostalgia and tomorrow’s anxiety. A small vessel caught between what was and what I hoped would be.

Looking for purpose and direction, the image of that child slowly began to reemerge—the one who, with timid wonder, brimmed with emotion and imagination. The child who, at some point, was forced (like so many others) to grow up too soon. The one who, over time, was replaced by older versions of himself and began to worry about things that, in truth, never really mattered. Who stopped believing that anything was possible.

The one who once dreamed of going the distance and becoming a true hero. The boy who, for a time, lost a bit of his glow within me, watching life pass by, almost waiting for the moment to come out and play again—this time with new friends.

Older versions of himself who, despite having deeper voices and slightly different silhouettes, still carry his same name and the same eyes.

There are still days when the sky turns gray, and its heavy clouds slowly drift into my mind. Days when distance overwhelms me with a sense of loneliness. Days when I barely recognize the person staring back at me in the mirror—if not for his eyes.

The truth is, life isn’t easy, but it is beautiful. We are all sailing through uncharted waters, doing our best with what we have. And in the process, it’s easy to forget that we are capable of colouring the sky a different shade of blue. De soñar despiertos. There is magic out there, and sometimes, if we’re lucky, we get to feel it run through our skin and set our souls on fire.

The light that has helped me find my way back to sunnier days, to adjust the lens and see life with greater clarity, has been recognizing the footsteps of Andercito, de Andertxu—and, in a way that feels almost instinctive, understanding why they now echo louder than ever. By holding out my hand and reconnecting with my inner child, I believe I have regained the ability to daydream and build, once again, those castles in the sky.

Let’s not forget that there comes a moment in every child’s life when growing up becomes the ultimate dream—sometimes even an obsession. The chance to say, “¡Ya crecí, ya soy grande!”

At that point, we are ready to take the leap into what we imagine adulthood to be: staying up late, eating ice cream for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, leaving home to explore the world atop a broomstick or a Pegasus, chasing dragons that will carry us closer to the stars.

But growing up also came with its share of unexpected surprises. Like realizing how overwhelming it can be to feel like you don’t quite fit anywhere, and how confusing it is to leave home. Or how hard it is to find a purpose that doesn’t involve wearing a cape and soaring through the sky, fingertips grazing the clouds.

I never imagined the permanent void left by losing a loved one—let alone how hard it is to piece together a broken heart.

In the end, that not all good things last forever.

I’m grateful to have collected endless sunsets and danced myself to sleep under the moon. I have laughed until I cried and cried until there were no more tears left to give. I have loved madly on unfamiliar shores and, at times, lost myself completely, tossed around by the waves of forgetfulness and bitterness. I have made countless mistakes, but in my failures, I found lessons—and in recognizing them, I believe I have also found a bit of wisdom.

I have reached some dreams and begun others I never could have imagined. More importantly, my collection of stories keeps growing, with new plot twists, spin-offs, and characters with hopefully, still many more seasons to come.

It’s strange—the thrill of diving into unknown worlds through books, films, and songs once left me with a bittersweet aftertaste. A mix of disappointment at not being the protagonist who could inhabit them all and the awe of wanting to surrender to them completely. But life slowly teaches us that the best story is our own and that we, too, are the sum of the stories that made us laugh, cry, and remember.

Now I realise that the simplest way to live out my childhood dreams is to write them—and through those words, finally step into them. The stories I once sought elsewhere had always been here. And now, with every word I write, I find a doorway back to them.

Reflecting on my three decades, I’ve come to understand that everything we have lived remains tethered to us. Not as a weight, but as piñatas or balloons—ligeros y libres—lifting us toward the clouds. The kind we loved so much as children. Because life is circular, and little by little, it draws us back to the things that once made us smile, cry, or held us close.

I believe we carry within us a catalogue of every version of ourselves. Some more present than others, some shining brightly, others softly dimmed, yet all of them a part of who we are today. We move forward, constantly reinventing ourselves and our dreams, collecting fragments of life—photographs that fill our minds with ideas, silhouettes that linger in memory, and a warmth that radiates from the heart, lighting up everything in its path.

With each birthday that passes, I feel myself returning to childhood, hand in hand with all my past selves. In that, I have found both companionship and peace, knowing that my inner child would be proud of how far we’ve come.

Feliz cumple, Andertxu. te quiero.

Volvamos a soñar despiertos, que la vida es corta y solo hay una.

p.s. acá les dejo nueva música para empezar el año - shuffle songs is always recommended 🪅🦭