By chris-chris92 on Skatehive
Once, this place was the soundtrack of my childhood. Between its towers and false castles, I learned to imagine. Valencia wasn’t just a city then—it was a stage where magic was real, and I was its smallest, most fervent believer. The sun struck those same walls, but everything looked different: vibrant, alive, echoing with children’s laughter and the promise that the world was endless. There were dragons carved in plastic, kingdoms drawn in pastel, and every visit felt like stepping into a dream that had no end. Now, I return and find bones. The structures remain, stubborn and hollow, like a melody that once made you cry but now only hums in the background. The stained-glass spires are rusted cages, the fountains dry as parchment, the gardens gone to weed and silence. And yet, something plays beneath the rot: Nirvana scraping against my ribs, Alanis whispering from the corners, Chionapo bleeding through the cracks. These aren’t just songs—they’re ghosts. And this park is full of them.