Obligated by the recent resonance of coming back, or going back I cannot leave the matter unexamined. And, so, following the advice of some thinkers of the past, I attempt to take a miniature step into the carving of my own existence, trying not to commit an act of pedantic pseudo-academic regurgitation.

In a fine illustration of melancholy, installed carefully in Pedro Almodovar’s latest movie, and presented beautifully by Estrella Morente, the song named also with the term in question, reminded me of my incessant fights with the humanities teachers of my youth. Fights that turned into discussions when my teenage insolence was frowned upon. While smiling gently at the descriptive adjectives that then flew back and forth, I try to understand the cause for my utter despise for the utopia that this young teacher held most dear.

Time, distance, and specially emotional detachment have led me to realize that it was not their utopia what I despised, which was a rather noble dream. A more equal society, through the implementation of government sponsored social programs; and independence from abusive American influence, are neither unworthy of consideration, nor unattainable. Yet, the former me screamed, insulted at the mention of what it sounded like recycled communism in a place where a noteworthy revolutionary movement was never even started. While I defended an unswallowed conviction, I was awarded many titles, and I distributed even more myself. Though, I know now that it was the words in the speech what struck my teenage rebel with disgust.

How does a man so young and full of ideals, carries the heavy luggage of remembering events that did not come to pass. Why do we cling to nostalgia for the fantastic? Is this a masochistic sacrifice traded for security, or survival instinct? It seems like our culture has an open affair with the legends of the past. We revere it, we fear it, but mostly, we deeply miss it.