Childhood memories stay imprinted in the mind far, far longer than those accumulated in adulthood.

In the square full of columns where that footage was shot, I used to go often with my grandmother, as a child, to the fruit and vegetable market - with that strong, distinctive scent of a herb market. As a teenager, I would sit on those low walls and lean against those columns with my friends, talking about the things teenagers talk about, dreaming and living. Those columns, like other corners of that city, were my world. And the pizzeria nearby, which tempted us every afternoon with the fragrance of freshly baked focaccia.

Ancient cities have a particular quality: they remain unchanged in space and time, allowing memories to reinforce their own persistence. There was a phase of my life when that city was perfect. I knew almost all my peers, at least by sight. All I had to do was step out at half past six in the evening, walk into the centre, and run into someone to exchange a few words with or take a stroll. No appointments needed - we all knew that if we were free, we only had to go into the centre and we would find each other, and then make plans from there. Mobile phones either didn't exist or were still expensive and primitive, and yet social life existed all the same.

When the time came to go to university, many kilometres away, it felt like a trauma. I knew something would change - who knows, perhaps forever - and I decided to cling to my old life. Every weekend I took the train back, even if only for forty-eight hours, to keep living my life - that life - which I had earned with so much effort and which was slipping through my fingers. Some of my friends had stayed in the area; others hadn't moved far, choosing universities nearby or going straight into work.

A few months in, on the train, I was so excited about a dinner organised at one of their houses that I had jotted down notes about the countless things that had happened to me in Bologna during that period - things I couldn't wait to share. I arrived right on time, busied myself helping out - nothing was supposed to change - until we sat down at the table. The conversation drifted across the usual topics, the usual people, and when I took the floor to talk about my experiences, the conversation dropped shortly after. I didn't think much of it - conversations have a life of their own, take unexpected turns. The second time, when directly asked, I started again, and again the conversation dropped.

I was stunned: the lapse, I realised, was not accidental. So I fell quiet, participating half-heartedly in the usual talk about the usual people, the usual places, the usual things. At the end of dinner, a couple of friends who had also moved away - to Milan, for their studies - came over and, pulling me aside, said something that stopped me cold: "They're not interested in what we're doing outside of here. Those who stayed have no interest in what happens to us out there. Some out of a kind of resentment, others simply out of genuine indifference. Their whole world is here - and what we do beyond it is, for them, completely irrelevant."

I realised they were absolutely right. Even when we had greeted each other at the start of dinner, after weeks apart, no one had asked: "So, how's your new life going?" They had continued seeing each other often, but I had stayed away for a while, held back by exams. This seemed to produce no variation on the theme whatsoever. I ran a social experiment: I took the floor again and shared a piece of local gossip. In that moment I had their complete attention - everyone, and I mean everyone, hung on my every word until the very last detail. I went home incredulous. What I had feared had probably come to pass - my life had changed, yes, but not so dramatically. But for them, my life was now different, outside their circle of interest, and in that moment foreign to them, unless it aligned entirely with their expectations. My determination not to cut the umbilical cord only worked if my social life revolved around events that had happened between Friday and Sunday. If something strange had happened to me on a Wednesday in Bologna - indifference. If I had a funny story - silence. If instead I had mentioned that a former classmate had broken up with his girlfriend - total attention. The whole train journey, then, served only to feed in me the illusion of a continuity that was already compromised. I concluded the effort was one-sided, and gradually, I let go.

But I didn't give up on reclaiming what was mine. As soon as I graduated - though I was already teaching and working - I set about finding a way to get closer again. To return to my city. And this desire was so strong that it didn't allow me, at least back then, to consider Bologna as a permanent home in any way. I hadn't even bothered to adapt, to make too many friends - "I'll be going back to my city soon."

Having kept good relations with everyone, I immediately started sending out CVs. Letting people know - friends, acquaintances, contacts - that I was ready to come back, ready to start from the bottom if needed, just to return.

Many pretended not to hear. Others called me in for interviews - and when they understood what I wanted and what I could do, they dismissed me with a flat "you're overqualified for what we're looking for." I was told my skills exceeded those of the owner, and that was completely inconceivable. I tried to enter a public competition - nothing doing: the role required a diploma in IT subjects. A degree, though a higher qualification, would not be valid. And a strong knowledge of French was required - though no one could explain why. I understood. Later, I discovered the competition had been tailored specifically for someone who was always going to get the role. My interest had only "complicated things." Undeterred, I pressed on - until I reached the encouraging offer: "You work for me for three years for free, I sell the service. If I make enough, I'll pay you. Otherwise we part ways - you're young, you have time." When I asked for more details about what "enough" meant, the person grew irritated and ended the conversation quickly, calling me a "presumptuous kid."

Meanwhile, in Bologna I had a dream salary and was doing work I loved. In a city that was not "mine", where I knew no one, but where people actually wanted to use my skills. Since part of my work involved training funded by European grants, I decided to try bringing that kind of training to my city. They already had IT courses - the classic "How to use Windows to write in Word" kind. I would simply bring what I was doing in Bologna, manage everything myself, adding value without taking anything away from anyone. No one listened. Determined, I spoke to an influential person and put forward my proposal. He told me, in all honesty, that this type of course had "always" been run by an elderly engineer, now in his eighties, and that there was no interest in expanding these projects into more modern forms. "If you want, I can look into it and try to speak to a politician, but I can't promise anything. Even if it's paid for by European funds."

That afternoon I drove for 30 kms and sat by my sea. It was moving at just the right pace - that steady, rhythmic sound, the smell of the shoreline and the fine mist of salt that clings to your lips, so that when you run your tongue across them you can taste it too. And I understood, beyond any doubt, that my life would not be in that city.

Almost all of my friends - the ones who didn't have their own businesses in the city - were now scattered across the world. The results had been the same for all of us. The ancient walls were still there, but "my people" were gone. My city no longer existed. Perhaps it had never quite existed at all. Or perhaps simply the fourth dimension - time - had erased what had made it so desirable to me. And I stopped trying, with the bitterness of someone who understands that the dream was always a pale illusion.

I don't go back to my city very often. Sometimes years pass between one visit and the next, because the feeling is divided: on one side, the sweet pleasure of memories. On the other, the sharp sting of rejection. Not of me, but of improvement, of change. The city continues, even today, to live in a self-referential closure, where many of its more ambitious children have found their paths far away, while those who remain indifferent to what happens beyond its walls keep speaking to the instincts of those who stayed. The population is in freefall.

When I speak today with someone who remained, that person still carries that sense of quiet resentment - as if the fault for all of this were mine, and the fault of everyone who left. But I don't hold it against them. They live inside a bubble made of former glory - family businesses, public sector jobs, privileged positions. They have never seen or experienced what it means to want to be, in some way, part of something important. So I have stopped defending myself too, because my city - if it ever existed in the form I knew it - has been gone for over twenty-five years. The market hasn't been held in that square for a long time now. The pizzeria on the corner has closed.

Now it is their city.

Beautiful, to visit. But not mine.

I heard it just a little while ago. It was said by someone about my age, who has children around twenty. They were complaining about not being able to understand them. So, I started to wonder: what if I went back to being twenty?

I'm making this reflection today, as I turn 46.

If I were twenty today, I would be out of step. When I was twenty, I was the one among my friends who spent the most time in front of a screen. Today, observing twenty-year-olds, my smartphone seems almost in hibernation compared to theirs. Just as I can’t bring myself to always use the speakerphone in public. I like holding the phone to my ear. More for privacy than out of habit.

I probably wouldn't know how to live with this social media anxiety (the commercial kind), this need to perform for TikTok, Instagram, or whatever else. And let's be clear, this isn't a "boomer" critique. I was simply born and raised in different times. I was an early adopter of social networks before today's twenty-year-olds were even born, and a proponent of free and constructive social spaces, like the decentralized ones. So, if I were in a twenty-year-old's body today, I wouldn't be at ease. I would probably be considered "the weird one".

But what if, instead, I returned to my twenties?

I remember well the moment the clock struck midnight on the day I turned twenty. I was with some friends at a friend's beach house. We were planning our New Year's Eve celebrations - which we were going to do in style, given that it was a historic New Year (1999 -> 2000) - and we had gone on a scouting trip. In fact, we didn't end up spending it there, but we were there in that moment. As soon as midnight struck, one friend started with the birthday wishes and everyone else followed. I felt so old. I mean: twenty!

A flood of SMS messages arrived in a short time. Back then, we didn't have data on our phones. We didn't have "flat" plans. We paid based on usage. We sent each other expensive 160-character texts (which taught us the gift of synthesis) or, just to tell a person "I'm thinking of you", we gave a single ring - a "squillo" - hanging up before they answered to save money. But during that Christmas period, a mobile carrier offered "Christmas Cards" - a sort of prepaid promo to send a certain number of SMS per day for free - while another new carrier (which had poor coverage) gave away free SMS. Unreliable, sure. Sometimes they arrived late. Sometimes they didn't arrive at all, but... hey! Free!

I don't have particular memories of that specific day. But I do remember that period. One afternoon, some friends were arriving by train and I had promised to pick them up to take them to the place where we would spend New Year's Eve. The house was close to the city, owned by a friend of ours, but the access was through a hidden downhill road. I remember that, while driving to pick them up, I was relaxing along the way listening to Abbey Road by The Beatles at quite a high volume. The CD, obviously. There were no MP3s in cars yet, and cassettes felt so "boomer" even then.

I was relaxed, positive about the holidays, positive about the phase of life I was facing. The start of university had been digested, I was studying things I liked, and we were planning a truly interesting New Year's Eve among friends. When the girls got in, I obviously turned down the music and played a prank by accelerating "towards the drop", knowing the road was just below. They weren't surprised, they already knew the place, and we had a big laugh together.

That New Year's Eve was beautiful, spent with friends, fun and relaxing. There were happy events, others less so, events that seemed like they would leave traces in the future. Partially they did, but not in the way I imagined. At a certain point, we decided to go see the sunrise of the new century from the main square of our city, while everyone was still sleeping. We all left together and, despite it being very cold, we sat on a low wall while the sun rose behind the ancient stones. Just the group of friends, no one else. No social media, no Instant Messaging, nothing. Just us, without distractions or conditioning. The group of people who, that night, had decided to greet the new century together.

Not everything was rosy, however. I had already started losing my hair and this, in some way, was reflected in some attitudes from others. Not discomfort, but certainly something "different". On Sundays, I wasn't interested in following football and, in fact, I got irritated because all my friends talked of nothing else. And on Mondays too. And Saturdays. And so on. Furthermore, when we went out for pizza, I often didn't eat pizza and didn't drink coffee (incredible, isn't it?). I liked playing with technology, dismantling and reassembling stuff, experimenting. I enjoyed making video and musical compositions with my computer instead of playing 5-a-side football. I went to the arcade instead - maybe with friends to do multiplayer challenges. And I had "remote" friends, penfriends - via IRC, via e-mail, scattered all over the world - something almost inconceivable for my peers. In short, I was always "the weird one", at least in part.

And so - what if I went back in time to my twenties?

No, thank you.

I would miss my life today, what I have built. I would miss much of today's world, like easily accessible communication and information. Because while it may be full of trash and fake news, the Internet is not dead. You just need to know how to search, like in a chaotic flea market. I would have to retrace everything I have walked through and no, it wouldn't be easy. Because the good is pleasant to relive, but the bad is not. When we get burned, we stay away from the fire.

And when I wake up in the morning, I feel good. Because my passions, today, are "what matters in the world". My friends, today, are those who have passions and thoughts akin to mine, not those whom life has geographically placed near you. Let me be clear - I have remained friends and on excellent terms with some friends from my youth - but many people I had around were, in fact, background noise. My wife, today, says my hair is comfortable - at least I don't have to comb it. And my work, unlike many people who considered me "weird" back then, is something I like and something the world needs.

And how many of those people resurfaced or sought me out after years, only because my path was becoming better than theirs and they wanted to benefit from it. But I stayed away from them - because, for me, it matters how you show up when I have nothing to give you.

I would be happy only because I could see people again who, in the meantime, have taken their leave from life, like my grandparents. Because I would think I had my whole life ahead of me, instead of thinking that the most energetic part has passed. Because I would have many dreams. Today I know that I have realized many of them, while others I simply transformed into something more within my reach, within the reach of the times, and of life.

Am I still weird? Sure! But today I don't feel weird anymore. I feel like myself. Because the people I have around, starting with my wife, are the ones I want and have chosen to spend time with. Because the conferences I attend are full of people who share a lot, whom I feel are much more friends than many "friends" I met on my path. And I smile - yes, I smile - when I feel good. Because I'm not ashamed of feeling good, in a world that increasingly sows hate to oppress and diminish people's value.

So no, I don't want to go back to being twenty. I want to live my life today, with what my age can give me. In the awareness that the Flux Capacitor doesn't exist, but wrinkles - those definitely do.

So we started visiting flea markets, antique shops, and secondhand stores, searching for pieces that might interest me. The goal wasn't to find something of great value (quite the opposite!), but something I liked, something with a particular, fitting quality. Websites, online auctions... everything. For a time, it became a mission: to find and save mechanical clocks, hanging them on walls or placing them on furniture to keep them from being destroyed. These were once precious instruments, loved by their owners, instruments that undoubtedly accompanied joyful waits and moments of anguish. At times, I imagine mothers watching them, worried, waiting for their children to return home. I imagine the rituals of winding them, carefully marked in time. I imagine how many eyes must have received a precious piece of information - one we take for granted today - by watching those hands, listening to that escapement, or hearing those chimes.

We found a few - and then a few more, and more after that. But one, in particular, caught my attention. It was for sale at a reasonable price, but the ad specified that it would only be sold "to a person who would take care of it". Intrigued, I called and arranged an appointment.

An elegant, kind woman greeted us. She wanted to talk for a while and then decided that yes, the clock could be mine. I saw it in person, hanging in an elegant room with some obvious gaps in the furniture. She explained that it had been her grandfather's house, then her father's, and finally, hers and her husband's. The clock had been in that house for nearly 100 years; it had marked her father's entire existence, and her own, and they were deeply attached to it. Her husband had it restored by a professional in the '70s - a conservative restoration that remains beautiful to this day.

The mechanism needed work. It kept time, but the springs likely needed to be replaced or rewound. One was broken. The small hammers were worn by time and chimes, like the lady's face, which was clearly marked by recent hardships and sadness.

She explained that her husband had passed away a few years earlier and that, facing the most difficult phase of her life, she had decided to move closer to her daughter, who lived in a distant city. A city with such high prices that to afford a small apartment, she had to use up all her savings. For this reason, she had decided to sell the family home, now dated and empty. But before doing so, she wanted to "assign" every single piece she held dear (and which was impossible to place in the new house) only to people she felt she could trust. I was one of the fortunate few, and I went home with the new clock.

As soon as I got home, I examined it closely. Yes, the mechanism was in order but needed some attention. I made some minor adjustments within the limits of my knowledge, intending to give it a proper overhaul later.

The clock has been hanging in a central place in one of our rooms for almost 10 years now. Every time I walk past it, I think of this story, of how important it was, and of the lady's sadness.

A couple of years ago, I decided to send her a photo - to reassure her of the clock's place. Her WhatsApp account, however, was no longer active. Who knows, maybe the lady changed her number. Or perhaps she has rejoined her loved ones, telling them about all the objects they left behind.

To strangers, perhaps. But to people who, in their own way, will love them as much as they were loved in the past by those who cared for them for many, many years.

I signed without reading, without thinking. An automatic gesture. Then, looking at my parents, she said, "Now you need to go, with this form, to the nearest Carisbo branch. Only after payment and the return of the receipt will the enrollment be final. Exit the office, go right to the end of the street, then right again, and you'll find it on your right. It's simple". I had heard her repeat that same phrase - identically - at least fifty times that morning, for each of the people in line ahead of me to register for university.

We left, thanking her. My parents in front, me behind. The place unsettled me. It had the austerity of an old office. Almost baroque, with its busts and plaques. For me, just a boy, it was something I saw as distant. Almost like something out of a horror film.

We walked down Via Zamboni, a street I had walked a few times before, but that morning everything felt different. The marvelous porticoes of Bologna felt, in truth, like cages, trapping me in something that wasn't for me. And in the spots where we walked along the road, I saw those ancient buildings, though not too tall, rising above the porticoes. They were distant enough to show the sky, but the street was narrow. I had the feeling they were touching one another. As if they were about to implode, to fall right on top of me. I felt crushed. Suffocated. I couldn't breathe; I wanted to cry. "Oh God, no, let's leave. I can't stay here. This city is big, chaotic, alien. Suffocating. Distant. I don't know anyone, there are so many people. In my small city, I have my certainties. Here, instead, I feel lost. I just want to go back home". It was a deafening thought in my mind. So deafening it drowned out the loud sounds of the city - so loud that they became, in my mind, silence. Because they were alien, loud, distant from me. And so, in my mind, they were erased. Non-existent.

I kept telling myself that the enrollment wouldn't be final until the fee was paid. In other words, I still had about fifteen minutes to call it all off. Yes, I could have. "Yes, please, let's cancel everything. But then what? What will I do with my life? What do I want to do, if not this? But all of this scares me. I just want to go back home. Take me home". Thoughts that remained only in my mind for many years.

But as I repeated these words to myself, we reached the end of the street. We turned right and, after walking under more porticoes, I saw the bank's sign. Just a few more minutes and it would all be done. "No, no. I can't stay here. Let's go back. I just want to go back home".

We entered the bank. My mother, standing at the door, looked at me. It was as if she had heard my thoughts, but she hadn't disturbed them. She had known me for eighteen years: no one can influence my thoughts, and for myself, I always choose. Taking the rewards if I'm right, or suffering the consequences if I'm wrong. Without being able to blame anyone but myself.

Her questioning gaze demanded an answer. I said nothing, but I nodded. She waited another second, but she knew that when I say something, I've decided and I don't go back. We went in. We paid. We left. We rushed back.

Arriving again at that office, I saw it with different eyes. I tried to make friends with those busts, with those faces, with those plaques. In reality, I would only set foot in there again five years later, but at the time, I didn't know that yet.

We returned to the counter, and the same woman, with her usual tone, carried out the second part - already heard, of course, from all the people in line before us. "Welcome, Mr. Marinelli. You are officially enrolled in the Faculty of Mathematical, Physical, and Natural Sciences - Department of Computer Science. I wish you the best of luck with your studies".

It was done. There was no going back. I was confused, but already looking forward. Those oppressive porticoes would be the stage for my next five years, at least.

Five years later, I still remember when I entered that place again. Identical to five years before, and the feeling inside me was similar. But this time, I was different. It felt more familiar. I walked in with a student record book full of signed lines - one for each exam, with a grade on every line. The "proof" of the results of those five years of study, made of changes, revolutions, reforms. I went to the counter, alone this time, and went to take a number, convinced I would have to wait in a long line. There was a sign I hadn't noticed five years earlier: "For those submitting their record book at the end of their studies, just knock". I knocked - and, to my surprise, the same woman from five years ago opened the door. Time, for her, had not passed. She was identical. Courteous yet detached. She took my record book and said goodbye, telling me, "When you need to collect your diploma, follow the same procedure". I was left waiting for her return.

As always happens (and in those days, without smartphones, it happened even more), I started to look around me. An endless line of young kids, almost all with their parents, with lost and intimidated looks on their faces. I could read on their faces all the questions they were asking themselves. I could hear their thoughts; the screams in their minds were piercing, almost deafening. They asked themselves a thousand questions and ended their sentences in the same way: "I just want to go back home".

I realized one of them was looking at me. He had a questioning, almost imploring look. He saw me as more of an "adult" and had seen me hand in my record book, with a smile on my face and more confidence in my interaction with the Admissions Lady. I looked at him and gave him a nod, a slight tuck of my chin and a firm, reassuring smile. He looked at me, smiled, and gave a small nod in return. He looked at his parents and told them, "Yes, let's do it". He had just understood that his fears were normal, that he shouldn't let them stop him.

I walked out of that office and looked up. I looked at the porticoes and the buildings. And I thought back to how oppressive they had seemed to me, in that summer of 1998, when I registered. And that, all things considered, they still feel oppressive to me today, a memory of those powerful sensations from back then. But there is a difference: those porticoes, in some way, have also become my home.

This isn't a BSDCan report, but a general reflection that emerged after participating in the event itself. There's the event, but there's me inside it.

The first question I received, when I went to greet the BSD community present in the days before the conference (there for the FreeBSD dev summit and tutorials) was asked by someone I deeply respect and admire, extremely active and positive for the entire BSD world. "Where have you been for the last 20 years?"

Off the cuff, I replied that I'd been busy doing things, but the truth (which I clarified the next day) is that I didn't feel ready to be an "active" member of the community itself. And the reasons are many, too many and too personal to be expressed here, but at the core there's a specific reason: I didn't feel up to it. Perhaps a form of impostor syndrome - without wanting to put a name to it, basically I felt like a tiny gnat among a group of giants.

I'm not an operating systems developer or an expert dev, I don't work at a company with thousands of servers, I'm not an ISP and I don't work for one. What could I have said or done, me, among them? And for so many years, I witnessed wars of every kind - online and not only - between people (even experts) who, just to excel, feel entitled to mistreat or offend others.

I didn't feel up to it. I didn't feel worthy of participating in conferences or events with people of this level. Except then, every time, I would look with sadness and healthy envy at all the reports, videos, and images of those who had participated instead.

I missed wonderful conferences, fantastic locations, but especially the opportunity to interact, years ago already, with amazing people - some of whom, unfortunately, are no longer with us.

When last September I participated in EuroBSDCon in Dublin, I understood that I had gotten everything wrong and that I hadn't fully grasped how wonderful the BSD community was, made up of real and respectful people, people who, like me, want to share their ideas, experiences, projects, and intentions with openness and respect.

And from here, an even stronger feeling took root inside me. Namely, that it's important to live life and leave nothing untried. If we want to do something, as long as it doesn't harm others, let's do it. Time flows and what's past doesn't come back.

In my case, it's not too late. BSD Conferences will continue to happen, year after year, and I'm already excited and preparing for the next EuroBSDCon - after all, it's only three months away. Because the people who organize them, the people who participate, and the entire BSD community in general have much in common with my way of seeing technology, software, and life.

I had the honor (and terror) of speaking right after Margo Seltzer, but everyone put me at ease. English isn't my native language and I was still a bit dazed from jet lag, but seeing BSD world friends sitting and ready to listen to what I had to say gave me the push to speak, to talk, to tell and tell about myself. And the feedback was really positive - many came to talk to me and share their experiences, ideas, and thoughts. In a healthy and positive way. Making me feel extremely comfortable.

Some speakers cited my talk, sharing the passion and enthusiasm. Unexpected, extremely appreciated.

I'm not a particularly extroverted person. I like to talk and communicate, but deep down, I'm shy. And I saw many shy people, both in Dublin and Ottawa, participate in the event without having any problems. Because the BSD community doesn't force anyone to be talkative but cares that everyone can be comfortable. Just as I should have done 20 years ago, going to attend conferences, in the serenity of being able to be myself.

I lost something wonderful for 20 years, but it's not too late.

Live life. Don't postpone, don't feel uncomfortable, don't worry about being judged by others. Overcome fears, overcome hesitations. Because one day you'll be disappointed about what you wanted to do and didn't do, but you'll never be disappointed for having at least tried.

For me, BSDCan was this: going to Canada for the first time, the journey, the preparation, the anxiety before my presentation and the relaxation, peace, and joy in the subsequent phases, talking with fantastic people and always feeling at ease.

Unless there are particular problems, I won't miss it. Because life must be lived and we must do what makes us feel good, finding ourselves among friends talking about the things that unite us. Without limits, without geography, without narrow ideologies.

Let's focus on what we like, on what we have in common.

Live life. Every single day.

A little while ago, while browsing a completely different site, an ad popped up. It was for a property for sale, and I immediately recognized what it was: a small house in the complex where I lived for seven years. And it brought back to me why, still today, I have never finished watching a TV series I was incredibly passionate about: The Big Bang Theory.

I moved into that house in 2008. New, rented at first (then bought with a mortgage a year later), completely unfurnished. Little money, little time, little desire: minimal furniture. Suffice it to say that when I left it, seven years later, I had only installed two lights in the living room, two plastic IKEA lampshades. In the other rooms, still just bare bulbs hanging from the sockets.

I lived in that house almost entirely alone. In a new place, initially knowing no one. And yet, that house was unforgettable for me. Those were intense years: the internet connection didn't even reach 1 Mbit/sec download, but I had exceptional neighbors who became friends.

In that house, I laughed, cried, rejoiced, licked my wounds. I cooked everything imaginable. I ran network cables at three in the morning, alone, from one floor to another, giving myself lactic acid from climbing the stairs so many times. I lived through a very strong earthquake. I experienced great wellness and terrible sickness, with a 40°C fever and having to get up anyway to cook and buy medicine. My friends/neighbors insisted on helping, but that's just how I am...

In that house, I lived through moments of joy and pain, extreme happiness and heartbreaking sadness. A sense of satisfaction, but also of total failure. Absolute freedom, and loneliness so strong it was frightening.

I packed and unpacked suitcases hundreds of times, leaving and returning at all hours of the day and night. I dreamed, and sometimes, I achieved those dreams. I felt free, totally free. And also caged.

I had to sell it, even though I never wanted to. The pain I felt closing that door for the last time was indescribable. Because only those who have had to, or chosen to, move away from familiar places and people can truly understand what it means. How it feels. That sense of freedom, but also of loneliness. Of being the master of your own life, yet a slave to fate.

I love the house I live in now, let me be clear. I like it, I feel good here, I appreciate it. But that house was part of me - of a phase in my life that was unique, irreplaceable. A phase that will never come back. And which I knew – and in many ways hoped – would eventually end.

I would have kept it; I wouldn't have sold it. But it wasn't possible. I could never have afforded the other house (with its mortgage) without selling that one.

Many years have passed, more than ten, but I still remember every detail. The last evening, similar to so many others spent there, I tried to live it normally. But I knew perfectly well that the next day everything would change. So I watched the episode of The Big Bang Theory I was up to, turned off the television, and went to sleep.

Ready for the changes that would begin the following day.

And I'm still stuck there. I've watched Young Sheldon, but I've never finished The Big Bang Theory. Because, somehow, it's part of that life, of that house. Of that phase.

Sooner or later, probably, I'll get unstuck.

But not today.

Not tonight.

Who knows, maybe tomorrow.

Or the day after.

Or...

That all started with the Big Bang.