By Carlos Jesús Pérez Simancas
There are links that curve inward, like shells that protect what is fragile. Others, however, open outward, like wings or shields that face the world. The former cradle the pain. The latter tighten the threads of destiny until they vibrate. I have had and have friends of both types. And today, from this mixture of gratitude and absence, I want to talk about two of them: Ruymán and Miguel. Two dreamers. Two fighters. Two ways of being in the world. Two geometries of the soul.
Ruymán was a young man of simple light, one of those people who never learn to hate because there is no place for hardness in his soul. A good, happy, generous boy. I met him when I was almost a child, through my friend Barroso. We went to concerts together, with that youthful devotion that turns guitars into flags. I remember, above all, that night on the Armas ferry, from Santa Cruz de Tenerife to Arrecife. Ruymán did not sleep. He sang, without pause, the entire Los Porretas repertoire. Each verse was an affirmation of freedom, an incantation against emptiness.
Miguel also sang. But his were other songs: silent, tenacious, songs of effort. I met him when we were both children in San Sebastián de La Gomera. It was a charming thing, one of those that disarms with a look and insistence. They punished him one summer, perhaps for one of many pranks, and they put him to work alongside my father. There, among knives and pans, his path began. Without knowing it, he was finding his vocation: cooking as art, as resistance, as alchemy.
Ruymán wanted to fly, but without leaving the ground. He had wounds that we could not name, and debts with himself that pushed him to flee without a map. In his inner exile he found no way out, and he stayed there, spinning in an orbit of melancholy that was wearing him down. It was a beautiful satellite, but without a planet. His tenderness became a refuge, then a trench. He didn't want to harden. He didn't want to learn to survive. As if truly living meant not giving in to cynicism. And that, perhaps, is why he left so young. I hope that wherever you are, you have found that path you were looking for so much. May there finally be a door where your soul no longer has to knock.
Miguel, on the other hand, decided to climb. Not out of empty ambition, but out of hunger for meaning. It began to be built from the ground up, with the patience of a craftsman and the vision of a visionary. And he did it. Showcases, autographed facades, recognitions. Michelin stars. Repsol Soles. Culinary constellations. Just yesterday, a national award from Diario de Avisos no longer established him as a promise, but as a beacon. A firm point on the map for so many young Canarians who dream of cooking as a language. And I, who saw him start, know very well what it cost him. What it costs you. Which will still cost you.
Both Ruymán and Miguel left the same place. Young, idealistic, overwhelmed by life. We fought with what we had at hand. Because life, as you know, does not wait for you. It falls flat, it pounces, it demands answers from you before you even learn to ask questions. Sometimes it turns into a slab. Others, in the abyss. And you only have your hands, your wounds, and that fire that some call talent and others call vocation. Or maybe, it's just faith. Faith in yourself.
Ruymán was a waning moon that did not want to shine completely. Miguel is the midday sun that burns without asking permission. They both taught me something: that there are those who choose to stay to protect what is tender, and those who move forward because they have no other option. One showed us the beauty of fragility. The other, the nobility of the effort. They are both still with me. One in the memory that softens me. The other in the joy that encourages me.
As Nietzsche wrote, there are those who are born to dance on the tightrope of dreams. And there are others who build it while they walk. I will always remember Ruymán with tenderness. Like that young man who wanted to touch the moon, but did not dare to leave the ground. To Miguel, I want to say from here that I am deeply proud. That your success is not yours alone. It belongs to all of us who have ever dreamed without knowing how our dreams came true.
Concave and convex friendships are not opposites. They are part of the same sphere. Life, in the end, cannot be understood from just one angle. But if one stops to look, with an open heart, with half-closed eyes, one may discover that we all spin within the same sky, searching for the same brilliance. And that, in a secret and beautiful way, we are still together.
Dedicated to Ruymán Medina Cabrera. May he rest in peace.
Thanks for reading me.
