I’m 43

I’m 43 but I’m not proud of it. If I have to be honest I should say that one of my obsessions is time and the inability of coming back. Childhood is a kind of lost paradise. I realize that memory is a bad friend when you try to remember how you lived when you were a child. Every photograph of the past in your brain is distorted by the calendar. Maybe it’s a defense built by our instinct of not remembering the worst days. Every image that wants to return from the past is brightly and colorful but at the same time you have to face the fact that you are living in the present and that little boy died years ago. And here you are. In a cage called time. You’re too young to think in the retirement and too old to change some things of your life. Sometimes the adult lives in the middle of nowhere, a wide desert of forgotten promises, broken dreams and fears. In addition, a strong feeling of sadness invades your soul when you imagine the big catalogue of places where you’ll never go, books that you’re not going to read again, friends who won’t call you anymore and words that you missed since you were a project of adult.

I’m 43 but I don’t want to be forgiven by time. I only want some kind of redemption.