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Memories emerge, flowing continuously. Vivid and attracting memories. Even the hurting ones. Like dreaming, but with a smile, or a tear.

If I lose my grip on the present, or the future, I slip into that world. It gained a gravitational force.

I imagined that reinventing myself later in life would be powerfully exciting. Someway it is, in some magic moments surrounded by scary sightings. But I’m archiving a life. That’s not a detail. Beyond the practical annoyances, I’m asking my self to stay closed in a box, not to disturb. But the person in the box it’s me, and has lived much more than I have.

This autumn light does not help. I close my eyes, and all is there. I open them, and all is still there.

The time I was a knight on a mission, the time I discovered China, the time we moved in this house, with a future ahead, the time I sat on my preferred boulder, the time I’ve been a jerk, the time I saw dad for the last time. The time I was in the heart of my life. The time my world sank in an instant. More than once.

It’s all there. If possible, I would say it’s more vivid than at that time. More aware. Painfully aware.

I’m not closing a chapter. I’m closing a whole book. With a start, a full story, and an end. A harsh end.

But I’m not too old. I cannot waste my future. I’m no longer allowed. No second chance, this time.

There’s still that spark, in my mind. Superb and stubborn spark.

But if I lean back in my chair, it’s all there.

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