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A Letter to Gustavo Cerati

Maybe you’re one of the few people who can truly understand the power of everything we make. You will never read this, you’re not alive anymore, but maybe I’ll try to picture you in my memory, like you picture those vivid memories in your songs. I wish I could have just one moment to think about how the stars aligned in your way and made you the artist that you were. I know, it is not an easy journey, but maybe it wasn’t the stars, it was all you. I have the same dream you probably had a long time ago, that dream you were able to achieve. I feel lost. I feel chained to what people expect for me to be. You need to move out, they say. You need to escape this place and leave everyone behind, cause I want another start, they say. But that is not my dream. I want to stay here, I want to be an artist and finally show my work to everyone around me. But how? How do I stop fearing the losses of my life? How can I let go? I’ve explored all of these questions with your music, they comfort me. Personally, I don’t know where to start.


I think we’re very similar. Using our art to channel all our turbulent emotions. I consider myself a turbulent person, I feel everything and nothing at the same time. I need a space in which I can feel safe. Because even though I like where I am, I feel constantly judged and misunderstood by everyone around me. I hear so much noise all the time that I wish I could just shut down, I am so sensitive to noise. I wonder if at some point you felt the same need to escape. Maybe our escape is the same thing that keeps us alive. Our distraction to our problems, which is nameless, which is ours and ours only. I need help to channel all of this in and turn it into something beautiful, turn it into a voice for those who are unheard. You were my voice, you are my voice. For that I thank you, but I also wish you were here to help me out.


For so long I felt so unheard. I kept looking at the screens and to my wall with so many confused thoughts. I convinced myself that I needed to be patient, that all those years of disappointment will be worth it for the art. But then we learnt that that’s not true. I wonder if that’s how you started writing as well, you were just tired of waiting. How did you do it? How did you manage to inspire so many people in so little time? Were you proud of what you did? Were you answering to yourself, or were you trying to escape? I wish I could answer all of these questions, but I’m just not there yet. And after 30 pages of written poetry hidden in my room, I still don’t feel ready to create. I want to answer to myself, just because you did too.

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