Time isn't the main thing. It is the only thing. Miles Davis

The power of time is undeniable. Things never stay the same. That's the reason we revolute, it's because we change. We want more or less, our priorities as a specie changes, we reorder them.

Time changes our glances and our souls too. Its power is reigning over everything. From the bodies we don't recognize to the souls that age. When I first saw that picture of my parents, a long time ago, the only thing that came to my mind was; that we only live young once. It didn't take me a long time to understand the repercussions of this realization. It meant that at every given step of my life I'll be regretting something that's gone. But I was so scared to not even get these moments in life that you can regret, less to regret them when they pass. That's why I start writing my journal when I was so young, before I even had anything defined as experience to write about . It was because I wanted to teach myself to remember everything. All the stupid, meaningless emotions I felt for some random guy. All the pain that felt for a while so unsurmountable. All the people who left too soon, before I even get to form an opinion about them.

My writings are my dearest treasure. Writing my thoughts down doesn't only feel like a release, it feels like breaking free from all the grandiosity they grow up into when they're stuck in the realms of one's brain. It also feels like immortalizing a moment that will never repeat itself. A moment when all what you've lived in life, all what you've seen, heard, and felt breaks down to one singular emotion or thought that fortunately could be described and released to the whole world to witness. It's like catching time inside a small bottle of glass.

However, this treasure is so hard to keep, that probably three times over five I've lost it. I've lost its virginity to people who just wanted to know what I was thinking. They've given themselves the right to steal from it things they can't replace, and can't give back. Because once the bottle is open, then time flies away from it, it leaves nothing behind. But a part of me always feels like this is what time is destined to do. Time is meant to fly in the air. The past needs to be set free for it to entangle the present and move into the future. And as time passed by, I realize that one of the reason for which I write, is the hope I have for all of this to be read out loud by someone who would understand the vulnerability of the human condition. Someone to whom I don't have to explain everything that broke down to that singular moment. Someone who will just …. know me. And how sweet will that be. For someone to have access to you, for someone to understand the mystery behind my wild heart, my obsession with freedom, and the rivalry I have against time, without actually having any word spoken, and so nothing confessed. That's part of why I believe in faith, weakness.

Time has changed me too. Maybe a better way to say it, is that it covered me, with some sort of veil concealing my true self and allowing the eye to only see coldness and passivity through. I can feel it. I feel that the veil is making many things easier. I don't have to talk anymore, or even to listen to myself. I once had dreams, real big dreams. All of them were scary. Now I have them cornered in a place where only I can see, and I act blind most of the time. It's been a long time that I'm convincing myself to make a dream book, but I still hadn't chosen yet the pictures that are filling my phone's memory storage. I wanted to paste pictures of California and New York. To have my best rock band on the cover of its pages. To talk about my professional projects. And how much I like Lana, because of her dreamy angelic voice that open portals to heaven that are somewhere in LA. Sometimes it feels like creating a parallel reality to which I can jump to stand this one, sometimes I think that if I never create that reality, then I won't have to think about this one, because one thing leads to the other after all. I won't have to connect the dots, to realize that it will lead again to one other moment, when maybe I can be happy. So I write, to forget or to remember, at this point I really don't know why I'm doing it for. It seems like the more I try to forget, the more I remember not to, passively. It's like trying to burry an old love by choosing to fall for someone who's a portrait of the old one. I also believe this will be my strategy in love matters.

The veil has become thicker before I realized it. I look around and all I see are familiar faces with flat affect. However they are actually perfectly healthy. They laugh until tears fall to unamusing matters, they talk very passionately about what I couldn't care less about, and they share shamelessly their opinions on me. And all I do is watch, I don't even listen. I know it because no answer comes to my mind. I only hold my book, and read. Read on the pages of something that excels in its beauty my surroundings, and my imagination too. But I manage to keep a low profile, I try to engage in some conversation, pretend. I can't deny especially to myself the feeling of superiority I feel towards them. It's not because I'm an intellectual or because I think of myself as someone smart. I've actually never doubted my intelligence as insignificantly as now, the only rescue I have from that hole is the memory of all the praising I've gotten along my life. It's because they seem far, far on a land I don't want to go to. A land I despise or I'm incurious about. They talk about life, but they know nothing about life. I care about what the fictional characters have to say about life, but I don't care about what they have to say. For them, life is sometimes a burden, it's a continuous fight for economic survival, a loss, or a mediocre opportunity to be taken. It's about some power you hold over your spouse as sign of that forever sought-after feeling: love, or how flattered you'll be when your children will receive a great mark at school, or in other word when you'll succeed in immerging them in a cycle of petty competition with their fellows, and relate forever their self-esteem to their academic achievements when there's much more to life. My protagonists they talk about freedom! They die for love! They live for life! They suffer their feelings! So of course I care about what they say more. But that is all I have left. Characters written by the hands of world acclaimed genius, so I don't think I should get any credit for the loyalty I have for their conceptions. My arrogance isn't that strong as it was when I laughed at my mom's dream of me getting into medical school, when I was actually planning to work on Stephen Hawking's' papers for my Ph.D. or when I despised getting into preparatory classes in my hometown,  while I was waiting for a scholarship. Thinking back about it, it seems that I did quite well proving my excellence. However I know now intelligence is a quite unattainable description. My superiority is nothing more than a veiled inferiority compared to people who at least know what they want, or accepted what they've gotten in life, although I am not a fan of this last sentence. It's just sometimes I think that it would've been easier for me if they were just honest .Yeah, such a selfish bitch! I mean maybe they're happy, maybe that is a good life to them, or maybe time has changed them or veiled them until they've become wrapped up in lies. You should know that they've lost a lot of dreams. And dreams hunt when they don't come to life. I keep on saying that they don't know me, but I don't know them either. The little I know about them, is what their lies dictate. They were young too, they once have big dreams too, they loved so much too, and they lived. It's just that they seem to ignore the amount of riches there is out there, the smart ones at control of their choices. They don't know about the Hamptons, about all things that happened behind the closed doors of research centers, the obsession others have with the galaxy and the stars. But they know what I don't perfectly grasp yet. They know the cruelty of time.

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