Nostalgia in Alto Deba. Starting with the trekuzco, where the towers and cables of the high-voltage lines. In the absence of fog, the Beasain-Durango highway stands out over the extracted mountains. In parallel, the road to the AVC shows the trail of bleeding from the mountain. On the same slope, at a distance, quarry and in the parallel eucalyptus. Down in the hole, Antzuola.

Solastalgia in the region of Urola. On my way home I have the compass Izarraitz; I'm crying with Izazpi, Oleta and Samiño, because they hear the voices in a few hamlets, all for fear. When the slope below Kostarratzu goes to the right, Aralar appears far away, between Pagotxeta and Irimo, as in the podium, golden, secondary and tertiary.

And, apparently, the dosing of destruction is based on a sad escalation: the golden ones are intangible – for the time being – the latter according to political convenience and the burials for the tertiary are sacrificial.

The inhabitants of lowly landscapes, paradises during the pandemic, have condemned us to talk every day with pain and pain with the places that form us. Because by the decision of some and by the complicity of others, the landscapes that make us stop being what they are.

Mourning on the shores. Because we will not be able to return to the spring that feeds us. Because they have condemned the camps to an eternal black, banning seasonal color change. Because we cannot dream of the future that is perceived in the silos of the mountains.

And you can't go any further. How do you stop being? While most live in an immense industrial estate, a few will have a distant paradise to feed the person's instinct in the world.

It sounds like a poetic issue, but what's more carnal than poetry? What, more real than the landscapes that people make us? What are we just reflection? Who will determine in the megavatt balance the sense of being a person and the number of megawatts it has to have a place in the world?

That sense leads us to defend our place. We have the strength of solastalgia so as not to drown in the embrace of nostalgia.