Pol 3.14 paints the picture of a late-night, high-octane romance that keeps flipping between euphoria and exhaustion. At 3 a.m. the phone rings, and the singer is whisked into a dizzying Madrid night: princess dresses, swirling taxis, endless bars, and photo-booth snapshots that spin like a carnival ride. Metro stops fly past—Tribunal, Cristal, Aeropuerto—until the couple lies on the airport floor, watching planes roar overhead while sharing a kiss that “smells of kerosene.” The whole night feels like a giant carousel, perfectly matching the title “Bipolar.”
Beneath the glitter and speed lies the push-and-pull of a relationship that can’t quite settle. One minute she wants to repaint the living room or move to the sea; the next she calls him “a weird guy,” then plants another irresistible kiss. He knows their chemistry is volatile, yet he follows her every impulse, half kamikaze, half hopeless romantic. By dawn he is left with snapshots of chaos, nostalgia for “good times,” and a lingering hope she will burst back into his life. The song captures the thrill and turbulence of loving someone whose moods—and adventures—change as quickly as the city lights outside the metro window.