Euphoria. A name that feels almost defiant these days. A word that pushes back against the tone of the present. Because euphoria—that sounds like radiance, like departure, like that luminous surplus of life that has slipped from our grasp. We live in turbulent times, say the news, the speeches, the headlines. But what, exactly, is moving? And where to? At times it seems as if everything is motion without direction. A constant circling, a droning with neither beginning nor end.

The world is growing ever more complex, we are told. But perhaps that only means we have lost the courage to simply see it. Instead, we map it with concepts, with numbers, with moral coordinates—until it dissolves under the weight of analysis itself.

So why did I call this album Euphoria?
Strictly speaking, there is no reason at all. Euphoria does not fit our present moment—no more than confidence or trust do. Believing in the good has gone out of fashion, because one does not want to make a fool of oneself. Irony is the protective coating of our time. Euphoria, by contrast, is naked. It wants to be seen, wants to believe, wants to shine—and that is precisely what makes it suspect.

But perhaps that is the point. Perhaps what we need right now is to reclaim the feeling. A moment of excess that does not apologize. Euphoria is not a naïve dream of happiness. It is an attempt to set something against cynicism. A gesture of sincerity.

For without freedom, there is no happiness.

But what has happened to our freedom? Where has it gone—that inner expanse, that untamed trust in one’s own being? Many people feel surrounded: by prohibitions, regulations, control, by the paralyzing certainty that everything has already been decided before one even begins to think.

And yet freedom is everything—and everything without freedom is nothing. Today, this truth sounds almost pathetical, as if one were speaking of a distant age. Freedom is not a fixed possession; it is a delicate balance. It demands risk, uncertainty, the possibility of failure. And that, precisely, seems to be slipping away in a world that mistakes security for meaning.

We regulate in order to protect—and in doing so, we lose what we meant to protect. We measure the world until it has no secrets left. We design guardrails meant to spare us from mistakes, and fail to notice that they also shield us from passion.

What remains when everything is regulated?

Perhaps only a longing for the unpredictable. For the moment in which one forgets oneself. Music can still do this—it can tear us out of predictability. It can remind us that freedom is not a concept, but a feeling.

In this sense, Euphoria is an attempt at a counter-design—not a dogmatic statement, but a poetic revolt. A celebration of being alive. It does not seek duration, but intensity. Those seconds in which one feels that one is not merely functioning, but truly existing.

Euphoria is not a permanent state. It is a flash. A sudden illumination that shows how bright the world could be, if we would let it. Within it always resonates the melancholy of disappearance. For every euphoric moment already carries the knowledge that it will pass. Perhaps that is precisely its beauty: it forces us to be attentive.

Many have forgotten how to surrender themselves. The fear of loss has grown stronger than the desire for life. We hold on, control, plan—and then wonder why nothing surprises us anymore. But life is not a project plan. It needs ruptures, leaps, coincidences. Euphoria arises where something unforeseen occurs, where we open ourselves to the unknown.

Perhaps Euphoria is a plea to allow ourselves to be seduced again—by a sound, a glance, a thought. Seduction not as weakness, but as an expression of freedom. For those who cannot be seduced remain untouched. And those who remain untouched pass life by.

We surround ourselves with filters and rules meant to protect us—from disappointment, from error, from pain. But all of this also protects us from the possibility of happiness. And what kind of protection is that, which keeps us at a distance from life?

Freedom begins where one is willing to lose oneself. In a moment, in a melody, in a feeling. Euphoria wants to create such moments—not to escape, but to remember. To remember that within ourselves we carry a space larger than the world around us.

The world is loud, contradictory, torn apart. And yet—sometimes, when a sound fades, when silence settles, when a thought loosens—one feels something greater than fear. Then one senses that beneath the layer of rules something else is alive: a longing for lightness, for closeness, for the first breath of the morning.

Welcome, then, to the world of Euphoria.
A world that does not claim to understand everything, but dares to feel everything.
A world that pushes back against the gravity of reason.
A world that reminds us that even in chaos, a spark of beauty glows—if only we allow it.