Passenger

Iggy Pop, that multifaceted artist and drug addict cop who captivated the public in the 60s with his style, wrote a song to another singer, Jim Morrison’s song, for his second solo album Lust for Life. Those with a minimal knowledge of rock history will be able to detect, thanks to the title of this column and the listed artist, that the song I’m talking about is Putnik.

I haven’t been able to get this song out of my subconscious for a few weeks now, it’s been playing over and over on a loop, rewinding and playing again. Lyrics that make my head spin just thinking about them have an implicit message. Hidden between stanzas, hidden in traveller’s figure, se feels the cold eye of life aimed, like a laser, directly at our existence.

That traveler who only observes, the one who is not fixed, is not attached to one person, but jumps, from here to there, changing personalities like masks. The one who looks at life through the mirror a glass clouded with disinterest. The traveler is you and I, we are those who life carries aimlessly, looking at the empty city in the light of the stars attached to the hollow and cold sky. Because the traveler is happy and joyfully singing in his chair, distracted by the banality of a directionless life, but how long can that last? What will happen when the journey is once over, when this character, who has seen through the glass all that is his, realizes what he missed, all that he could never touch, but always observed?

Life, that driver that leads us through a saw off the highway in the oldit can be very ironic.

A journey through miles of streets where simple rewards and low-hanging fruit abound, surprising the traveler with the infinite possibilities their imaginations can create. It passes in front of his nose, like a bone to a hungry dog, the hope of caressing his greatest dreams and aspirations.

But we are dense, slow in thinking, we believe that the vehicle, small and painted in gray, which drives the roads of the city illuminated by silence, will return to the same avenue where we used to see each other dressed in silk.

The traveler, that straw doll with a mirror instead of a face, thinks that just like the rings of Saturn everything will return to the beginning, but he ignores, in a vulgar and shameless way, that what he saw pass like lightning through his window is collapsing. under immensity of reality.

The traveler has no malice in his inaction, the immobility is born from the false security of returning to the starting point, as if the cycle had been closed at some point. Passenger, arms crossed in U, he doesn’t know if what he feels is the joy of seeing everything that belongs to him or the sadness of not being able to get out of the traffic of the runaway car.

So, there are no two conclusions about what a passenger can feel attached to the transparent borders of his window. The first would be to think that he suffers from the apathy of life, which escapes him at every step. I blink, easing the pain with distance, or we could think also that that passenger, who sings happily at the stern, feels the satisfaction of a well-lived life, looking forward to the image of everything that is under his wing, can fly over the kilometers that separate him from the horizon, singing to escape from bad times, smiling to better feel the warmth joy.