The Cure
Wish

THE REVIEW

What is "Wish"?
"Wish" is perhaps a shooting star with an alien gait: you can gaze at it on your favorite night, with ears perked up, searching for a buried wish. It might be a wish itself, lasting an hour or so, as its name suggests. Or perhaps it's a wish all around, in that blessed hour, that the room and walls give way and the bed sinks into a warm, underground universe. It is a wish for Love, in the primordial sense of the term. A wish perhaps made under a frighteningly starry sky by a sweet soul, Robert Smith, the dream singer, the sad minstrel, the author of sweet ballads with a heart of gall. He, who opens his Wish with a scream of bitterness towards himself, a self drunk on flows of consciousness and regrets, and the bile that rises up and up through the stomach and reaches those who listen in astonishment. "I can't take it anymore/ It's how I have become/ It's what I deserve/ Now that my life is losing meaning...".

And, as if that weren't already enough to melt the heart like butter on a scorching spoon, "And the way the rain falls loudly/ It's the way I feel...". The heart is open now. Broadly torn apart. Without reservations. Ready for anything. To suck the infinite sweetness of the bitter without missing a drop. Because, you know, wishes are as bitter as the stars that stutter them to our faces. This is it. Tender declarations. Sleepless love. Broken promises. Disenchantment. Direct poetry, shouted without reservations, without intellectualism, as only children know how. And again enchantment, sweetness. A perpetual and solemn descent into the depths of the depth of oneself. "Screaming your heart out is the best way to learn to sing". And he puts it into practice, in a tangle of nerves and guts and heart and blood... and, in the end, after the immensity of desiring impossible things, that sensation of melancholy and comfort at the same time, which is perhaps the only catharsis in a world that wants to steal our wishes... at the end of it, the epilogue. You return to the abyss, to not forget that we are fragile beings. That catharsis is only momentary. That, in the end, wishes will return to shimmer intermittently in an infinitely above-night blue over our tears and that we will only be given to gaze at them in perpetual stasis. For eternity. "I think I've reached the point/ Where every word you write/ Of every sea of dark blood/ And every black soul night/ And all the dreams in which you dreamed of me/ And every perfect absolution from sin/ And eyes on fire/ And burning hearts/ Are just the same old song". Amen.