Øjne
Prima Che Tutto Bruci

The eyes of my grandmother convinced me to start writing again about the Øjne. I adore my grandmother. She taught me a lot, but I realized it only in recent years. I never told her anything, but in my heart, I hope she knows how important she has been to me. I see her less and less often. Growing up, c'est la vie. C'est la vie, my ass. Sometimes I see her again on weekends. My grandmother now has senile dementia. For her, I have really become that six-year-old grandson to whom she gave the first bicycle, with whom she went on holiday, and whom she taught to make pasta. In her illness, she always remembers my name perfectly. Daniel. I don't think she can confuse me with anyone else; it's our secret. To make sure of this, we have developed the habit of playing a simple game. We take the old family albums from the closet, give them a good dusting, and start reliving the photos of trips, birthdays, faces, moments that are embedded in the past. Grandma smiles, I look her in the eye, and I realize how hard it is for her to organize her memories. And it's at that moment that I feel a stab pierce me. Straight in the stomach. A blow that cuts and breaks me in two.

My mind tries to remove the sensation, but it thinks and rethinks without pause. The blades have opened a gash that leads to a small window of a world buried for so long. So I realize it's not a painful stab, but a necessary stab. That's why I want to lose myself in my grandmother's eyes, because there, there's everything I was, what I have been, and what I have become. They are the eyes of someone who accompanied me to places where my memory does not reach. This is the stab I want to live with. And this is where the Øjne come into play with "Prima Che Tutto Bruci." The exaggerated screamo from the Milanese band has been, for me, ever since "Undici/Dodici," an emotional wave that crashes on the shore in a dizzying way. It moves. Deletes. Transforms. Creates. I close my eyes and let myself fall into the void, being submerged by their melancholy. It's a deep dive, but liberating. An apnea I want to last forever, without the need to find the light of the sun's rays. I want to stay submerged and feel the cold water devouring my skin. Going up on the other side of the river this time means clashing with the violence of knives. A symbolic violence that pulses in the DNA of "Prima Che Tutto Bruci" and that flows bloodily. It's the shout of the Øjne that serves as a desperate echo of those who feel those knives, sharper than ever. Yes, those knives.

Those knives that crumble every certainty, every idea. That change your view of the world.

Those knives that allow you to draw a clear line with the past. That dismantle the cobwebs of your scars.

Those knives that hurt you, physically, mentally. That you always carry with you, hidden, but heavy.

Those knives that embed themselves in remorse and apathy. That you try to use as a weapon against your mistakes.

But in the end, there are also, and above all, those knives that are not made of metal, but of words, hugs, phone calls, glances, gestures. That are emblems of your fragility. Just like the eyes of my grandmother. Here is the genesis of this piece on the Øjne. Because yes, review is saying too much. "Prima che tutto bruci" e che tutto scivoli via sbiadito, indistinto is that reminder I felt necessary. Urgent. It is one of those records that makes you aware, just as "You, Me & The Violence" affected me similarly 6 years ago, how "violence" is part of us in a much more intimate way than one might imagine. So yes, ***** no one can take them away from you, my dear ones. And, once again, thank you.