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.

The first thing I tested them with was a podcast I follow, whose new episode was about Pixar. And while some titles were being listed, Up was mentioned. It was in that instant that something sparked, making me reflect.

I still remember the first time I saw it, 16 years ago now. Carl looked just like my grandfather, his "cartoon" version. Identical! But it was a particular moment in my life, a specific situation, a personal mood, a recent impactful experience - I remember the first part touched me deeply. Carl and Ellie's story left an immediate mark. Two invented characters, yet bearers of something true, something profound. Of something wonderfully and joyously painful.

Somehow, I identified with both of them and, for a few days, I often found myself thinking about that situation. A normal situation, one that over the course of a lifetime we might, unfortunately, find ourselves facing. Either they were good at rendering it, or I was particularly susceptible.

Wearing the earbuds and hitting play, I went back to that mood. With 16 more years, a different life, and somehow, a different awareness. At 30, you see certain things as distant. At that moment, perhaps impossible. And I couldn't say if, back then, I was more afraid of living an experience like Carl and Ellie's, or of not living it. Of not wanting to live it. Of not being able to.

Today, everything is different. More certainties, perhaps. Fewer safety nets, certainly. And an awareness: that defending yourself helps protect you, but it makes you lose all the pleasure of what lies in between.

So - I ask myself today - does all this make sense? I don't want to give myself an answer. Or rather, it’s too late to wonder: I'm already on the dance floor, fully involved in the dance. In the meantime, however, I'll enjoy the view, as long as there is still sun to illuminate it.

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.

And yet, I used to be a tennis player. Not professionally, of course, but I trained consistently for about ten years - from the age of 8 to 18.

It wasn’t always enjoyable. I started because I was forced to, and I did it almost unwillingly. And it showed. And yet, those were wonderful years, and many lessons from that time have stayed with me to this day. One of them: respect.

In tennis, you don’t “trip” your opponent. If you win a point by hitting the net cord, you apologize. Some do it as a formality, others because they truly feel it. And after the match, players leave the court together, with deep respect and friendship. A contest of skill and physical form, not a battle for dominance. That’s the spirit tennis taught me.

Of course, it’s not always like that, and not for everyone. But there were three events, over the years, that left a mark on me.

The first, when I was very young - probably around 10 or 11. I didn’t feel like playing, and I was only doing it because I had to. It showed. Suddenly, my instructor stopped the training and hit the ball to the far end of the court. She called me over and, without sugarcoating it, said: “If you don’t feel like playing, leave. It’s disrespectful - to the sport, to me, to the others. No one is forcing you. This is not the way to approach it. Respect those who are here with you, always”.

I was crushed - because she was right. I realized how disrespectful, rude, offensive, and stupid I had been. I apologized, and from that moment on, I approached training with the commitment it deserved. Always remembering to show respect to those who were giving me their time.

But it took a few more years - when I joined a pre-competitive group - before I truly felt the spirit of it. Maybe, as a kid, I was missing the motivation: the group, the sense of growing together. Things changed, and from then on, I trained almost every day. Two days of athletic conditioning, and the rest on the court. Summer and winter, in the rain and in the snow. With others. An adventure to live together - people of different ages, similar skill levels, a shared passion. Friends, teammates. Those were wonderful years, with wonderful people.

But, I’ll admit, I was doing it more for the group, for the experience, than for the sport itself. Sure, I liked it, and I had gotten decent at it, but I was far from the best. I didn’t have the right mindset - certainly better than before, but still not the right one. When there were tournaments, I didn’t sign up. My goal wasn’t to rise, but to share a spirit.

And yet, once, during a training match, after my fourth mistake in a row, I had a burst of anger. Extremely rare for me. Frustrated, I threw my racket to the ground. Not violently, but with a good dose of anger. My instructor (still her, my Teacher) looked at me, eyes locked on mine, disappointed: “Out.” She kicked me off the court. Because no, you don’t do that. If I made mistakes, I had to focus more. Or maybe it was just a bad day. But throwing the racket? No. It’s important to stay calm, to manage anger, not to be overwhelmed by frustration. On the court, and in life. Because if nerves, anger, resentment pass a certain point, things can only go downhill - in sports, and in life.

I lost the match like that, to the disappointment of both myself and the person on the other side of the net. I left the court, looking at the racket (now with a few extra scratches), reflecting on what had happened. In the moment, I was still too angry to think clearly, so I just followed orders - but a few hours later, I fully processed it. It never happened again.

I stopped training and playing when I left for university. There were two reasons, but they were somewhat overlapping: moving to a new city meant a new group, new instructors, and I would have to juggle that with a much more intense academic schedule than in high school. In my first year, I had classes every day, all in the afternoon (from 13 or 14 until 19, if I remember correctly), so it would have been extremely difficult - if not impossible - to balance everything. I decided it wasn’t worth it, priority-wise. Especially in light of something that had happened a few months earlier.

Our training group was tight-knit: we were training partners, but some of us were true friends. We would hang out outside the court, go on outings together, etc. A really beautiful bond had formed. One day, for instance, I ran into one of them by chance, and we decided to go home together since our friends were staying longer. I was on my Vespa, not driving a car (I expected a lot of traffic and was still a bit unsteady behind the wheel), so we left together, riding through mountain roads, talking about everything, and having a lovely “journey” of friendship.

The next day, during tennis training, a match was arranged (again, just a practice match) between us, and we started playing. I was focused, but I could tell the other person had a different intensity. Much stronger than mine - bordering on unsportsmanlike. Anyone who’s played tennis knows there are certain shots, certain tactics, certain little tricks that show when someone is trying to put you in trouble in a subtle way. And that’s what she was doing.

During a break (we were more or less even), I asked why she was being so aggressive - the answer was clear and blunt: “We may be friends, but when there’s a match, there are no friendships.” True, in a way. But it really hurt me. A match? I would have called it a confrontation, a friendly challenge, especially since it was just training (mainly physical training). Sure, it wasn’t to be taken lightly, but still - no need to be that aggressive.

I kept playing, and her intensity kept rising. I didn’t understand. Something was up. I talked to the coach during the next break. She smiled and explained: they were evaluating who to move into a new amateur/competitive group the following year. There wasn’t a set number of spots, but the idea was to organize some local tournaments. Not a career in tennis - the truly talented and motivated ones were already in other groups, playing all over the country - but just a more focused approach. And clearly, she had decided that this was something she wanted. So much so that she never told me - the day before, during our long chat - hoping that keeping it a secret would give her a better shot. And now she was playing almost dirty to prove how much she wanted it. To show she deserved it much more than I.

It was a bitter disappointment. Because for me, it was all about the group, the environment, the atmosphere. For her, that didn’t matter as much. Sure, she was a bit younger than me, so she still had time before facing the same choice I was approaching (whether to continue or stop once university came). Sure, tennis is ultimately an individual sport more than a team one. But none of us were real competitors. None of us would become champions. So, personally, I would never have pulled a stunt like that - especially not against someone I had such a deep and long-standing friendship with. Years of friendship.

I won the match. Because at that point, I played with anger. With energy, with tactics, with strategy. With disappointment, with regret, with sadness. I played to win, and I did. Without saying why. Without showing that I knew. When I scored the final point, I approached my opponent to shake hands and leave together. But to my surprise, she slammed her racket on the ground and walked away without a word, visibly angry. She didn’t expect me to win. She didn’t expect me to react that way. She thought she could beat me, shine in front of the coaches. Instead, she showed ambition - but not integrity.

My instructor, my Teacher, came up to me. She had known me for almost ten years and had seen me play thousands of times by then. She just said this, with a smile halfway between proud and disappointed: “You’re a bastard. Look at what you just did. If you played like this all the time…”

It was the smile of someone who had watched the transformation - from the unmotivated kid to the focused, fast, athletic and committed teenager. But she also knew why I had done it. And she knew it wouldn’t happen again. And she was right. I had won - but not with the right spirit. So she didn’t suggest me for the new group, even though, in her opinion, I had all the necessary qualities. Except for the mindset, of course.

That person joined the group, but didn’t last long. Too much ambition can backfire. And that episode marked the end of our friendship. We stayed on good terms, but just as acquaintances. Then I left for university, and we lost touch.

She never knew that I knew. She never knew how disappointed I was by her behavior. The next day, during athletic training, we both pretended nothing had happened. But nothing was ever the same.

Tennis is a noble sport. It taught me so much, and it’s thanks to tennis and the people who guided me that I am who I am - especially in the parts of my character I’m most proud of. But I could never have been a competitive player.

Because for me, tennis has always been about confrontation, never combat.

Tennis taught me to respect others - and myself. And that, more than any trophy, is what I carry with me.

The First Story

My grandmother was born into a peaceful and economically stable family. They weren't rich, but they lived well. Her grandfather had a textile business that produced specific garments for the Vatican. Her father was a cultured person, intelligent and passionate about technology (I wonder where I got that characteristic from!). He collaborated in the family business, but was also a stationmaster and wrote for some local newspapers. Very active and appreciated in the community. In the early 1900s, he also had a small photography workshop, and many historical photos and postcards of important events were taken by him. For this reason, we have many photos of my grandmother, born in 1920, as a child. Some with her gramophone, which she adored - like many little girls of that era. Many of these photos, unfortunately, have been lost.

When fascism took power in Italy, my great-grandfather was immediately contacted and "advised" that he would have to join the party and write articles aligned with the system. His father was essentially forced (under penalty of losing work contracts with the Vatican itself) and, although reluctant, accepted. He did not. He decided not to openly oppose them, but believed that period was an anomaly that, in his opinion, wouldn't last long. Things, however, went differently.

He was "disowned" by his father (at least publicly) and penalized - the most barbaric and violent part of the community (those who saw him as "successful" and modern) couldn't wait to turn against him. His wife, my grandmother's mother, died very young (I don't know exactly why), but he, as a loving father, still took care of his children with the help of his sister-in-law.

I still remember my grandmother's eyes when, very few times in her life, she told about her family's "night of broken glass". The sun had set a few hours earlier and her father was still at work because some trains had been delayed (so much for those who say trains were always on time back then), so he hadn't come home. As always happened in these cases, his sister-in-law was at home watching the children - my grandmother and her brothers, who were already in bed. She heard knocking and, looking out from a small hidden window, saw a group of men dressed in dark clothes. They were shouting my great-grandfather's name. She understood immediately, ran to the children's room and made them hide under the beds, where she also hid to stay with them.

The thugs broke down the door and began searching. They wanted to give him "a lesson" and, not finding him, decided to break everything they found. Plates, glasses, objects of every kind - both from the house and the children's belongings. They tore clothes, kicked tables and chairs, threw pots on the ground to bend and break them. Unheard-of violence. My grandmother still recounted, with terror in her eyes, those moments. The sound of all their things on the ground, broken and destroyed by the violence of these people. When they entered the bedroom, they saw the children's beds still unmade and thought they had fled. They "limited" themselves to breaking my grandmother's gramophone and the photos of my great-grandmother - the only memory these children had of their mother, who had died recently.

Then they left, saying they would go look for him at the station. To avoid being seen, my grandmother's aunt decided to climb out a back window and run to warn her brother-in-law - but this window was so narrow that, to manage to get through, she injured herself all over (my grandmother remembered the blood) and hurt her shoulder badly. She managed, however, by running, to reach the station before them, and my great-grandfather took refuge, hiding inside a stationary train on a secondary track.

The next day he went to file a report. The local authorities collected the complaint casually and advised him to "understand what times were underway and behave accordingly". The podestà, the highest municipal position in those times, was a close relative of his, but this was of no help.

He died very young - probably, it was said, of brain cancer, but the suspicion of poisoning always remained deeply rooted in many people's minds. My grandmother was orphaned at 15. Some years later, one brother had died, the other was at war. She was alone. She, of extreme intelligence and culture, who associated with the most educated people in the area and dreamed of studying Medicine at university, found herself with distant relatives, not even very kind ones, and with nothing.

My grandfather treated her exemplarily, recognizing her intelligence, culture, and abilities. He was a baker, but felt honored to be beside this woman so beautiful and intelligent, cultured and refined. And she always acknowledged this, thanking him. But she could never forget that everything she was, everything she had, was destroyed in a few years. Her family, devastated. Her dreams, erased. And she didn't tell everything, of this I'm certain. And I will never forget her eyes when she told about all this.

The Second Story

The second story concerns another member of my family, but I won't give further details for privacy reasons. He was a farmer and owned land.

He was a young man who had been orphaned very early. He had sisters who were still very young and his mother, but for various reasons, they couldn't provide concrete work contribution, so he found himself managing everything alone and very, very young. He had the intelligence to understand that he couldn't make it alone and, as was customary in those times, decided to get help from sharecropper families. He, however, was careful but positive, so he gave these people much more than the law itself provided. A few years ago, for example, we met a person who, as soon as he learned of our family connection to this man, told us that his grandparents had been sharecroppers for this gentleman. When their daughter (this man's mother) reached school age (and wanted to study), he said that for the entire duration of the daughter's studies, he wouldn't demand his share, to help the family support her. This person managed to study, graduate and fulfill herself, to the point that she named her son after this gentleman. We had never known this; he had never told anyone. Because those who do good from the heart don't need to tell everyone about it. But anyone who dealt with him knew how good he was.

They were small country villages and there were people who, out of attitude or envy, spoke badly of this gentleman and his family, seeing them as "rich", but they weren't, since they shared much more than necessary with those who worked with them. Not to mention other private reasons and historical dynamics that further reinforced this perception.

When fascism arrived, the village was small and this gentleman tried not to get dragged in. He had an "elderly" mother, sisters still quite young and, despite being of the right age, hadn't married yet. He was absorbed in work, in not going to ruin, and in creating a future for his sisters and for the families who helped him. Even as the years passed, he was focused on the hard daily life, worried about feeding the people he cared about. He therefore didn't join fascism and didn't enlist with the partisans, continuing to work.

Given his condition as fatherless and his role, he wasn't obliged to leave for war and thus managed to continue maintaining a dignified standard of living both for himself and for the families who collaborated with him. For the local anti-fascists, this was "clear proof that he had connections in the party, otherwise he would have gone with the others". Gossips, from whatever political side they may be, always know how to find something to cling to.

When the war ended, in that area there was a strong retaliation against those who had been fascists. In the case of this gentleman, there was no direct attack since, in fact, he had never been one, but that sense of "retaliation" always remained because he hadn't left for war and hadn't enlisted with the partisans - and people who disliked him tried to take advantage of the situation to "punish" him. Specifically (and I have the document that proves it), some of them became politicians and municipal officials. The post-war demographic expansion had generated quite significant growth in the village, and new constructions had become necessary to house the new families.

There was already a law that required a certain amount of public green space for every certain number of inhabitants. That law, over the years, has been further strengthened, but it was already in effect. When this gentleman realized they had made buildable and contracted out (to companies that, it would later be discovered, were connected to cooperatives doubly linked to these officials) the construction of entire buildings right at the border of his land and without any public green space around them, he immediately asked for clarification at city hall: he didn't understand the point of this encirclement. They reassured him because, they told him (and I've seen the related documentation), "in an emergency they could waive that law" and, to prevent the village from expanding too much, they could designate another area as public green space, as long as it was in the same municipality, even if kilometers away. He was reassured but not entirely convinced.

Construction began and finished. Families moved in, and the gentleman received a notice: a summons to city hall. Obviously he went and, to his surprise (but not too much), they informed him that they had built "too much" and needed to create a public park and other "public utility buildings", having reached the critical mass of citizenship for those buildings. They therefore asked for the possibility of purchasing the gentleman's land or, "in case of refusal", to expropriate it. He was stunned: selling was impossible - there was his house, his tools, and the families who worked it. The proposed price, moreover, was insufficient to cover the purchase of another piece of land, cutting off a good part of his family's subsistence (he had another, smaller piece of land not far away). But he positioned himself positively and constructively, trying to find solutions that would be acceptable to everyone, while emphasizing that they had deceived him from the beginning. There was no way to discuss it. This gentleman, no longer very young but not elderly either (a little older than I am today), fell into total anxiety. So severe that he had a serious heart attack, coming close to death. The doctors told him he would have to rest, but he couldn't. He was trying to save the situation. A meeting was scheduled that he tried to postpone, but the officials were inflexible: "if you can't come to us, we'll come to your house". And so it was. When he, still recovering from the heart attack, tried to make a few small observations about how there were other (uncultivated) lands and space to use, the official shouted, "Listen, stop it. You fascists must be stripped of all your assets. If you don't give it to us willingly, we'll take it by force, that is, through expropriation!" He was dumbfounded. Okay, this official was one of those "sitting at the bar talking badly about people who work", but it seemed absurd that after so many years, there was still this (unfounded) accusation of fascism. It was useless that everyone in the village knew this person was foreign to such dynamics. This was the spirit of these people, those who "sat at the bar and envied those who worked". Years later, it would be discovered that in those parts (and not only) many were accused of fascism for the sole purpose of appropriating their assets. But at the time, calling someone a fascist was enough to put them in the public pillory, even without any proof or evidence. And many people, for their own gain, presented themselves as "anti-fascist" solely and exclusively to ride the benefits of the time.

The procedures went forward, so quickly that an expropriation authorization document arrived. Upon seeing the document, this gentleman became so upset that he remained locked in his room for two days, not even having the strength to get out of bed. Then came the final, fatal heart attack.

I'll stop here. I'll only say that, given the "unexpected" event, they managed to hastily organize the execution of the expropriation within 48 hours (incredible timing, in Italy), to carry it out during this person's funeral, convinced that all relatives would be absent. One of them, at the end of the funeral, went to the site of the expropriation and saw the official, with a satisfied smirk, boasting about how he "had taken the land" from this person during his funeral.

Years later the truth would come out: they had built too much, maximizing the builder's profit (a cooperative whose members were, strangely enough, the former "bar chatterers"). In this way, they had cashed in while passing the burden of public green space and services onto this gentleman. For the expropriation of his house, he was awarded a sum comparable to what one would pay today for a mid-level laptop computer.

And the expropriated land? Today it lies uncultivated, almost abandoned. After all, it served no other purpose than to "comply with a law". Public documents today prove this. But many years have passed and all the actors are deceased. In the name of anti-fascism, they plundered a family of honest, correct, and altruistic people.

Conclusion

A man of culture destroyed by fascist violence. A generous man annihilated by the hypocrisy of those who claimed to be anti-fascist. This legacy makes me a convinced anti-fascist, but also a fierce opponent of anyone who, under any banner, uses ideology to crush others. This is why respect for life, freedom, and the dignity of every person are the non-negotiable foundation of my worldview, and this, in turn, I transmit to all my activities.

Just like in the IT world, I am convinced that you can usually solve much more with a direct conversation than with a thousand intermediate steps. Too many layers, even if theoretically sound, just complicate things.

And this is one of the reasons I've always tried, as much as possible, to avoid overcomplicating the relationship with my clients. It's why I have always sought, as much as possible, to engage with businesses where I can speak with people, not "offices" or "departments".

Take the example of the roof repairs on my house: I spoke with the people who did the work. They did an excellent job and even fixed things I hadn't mentioned because, in their words, "a satisfied customer is a customer who will call back". A few days earlier, "large, structured" companies had sent completely different quotes without even looking at our roof. "The people we send will assess it then, but we'll instruct them to do what's in the quote". It was schematic, inflexible. Probably efficient from their point of view, but not from mine. Replaceable by AI? Of course: X square meters of roof, Y job, Z per square meter -> cost is €W. Without anyone truly caring about what my roof might actually need.

For this very reason, I dislike talking to salespeople. It's one thing when I'm buying a product (with verifiable features, etc.), but it's different when I'm buying a service or a consultation. Salespeople do their job, which is to sell. And they try to sell what they don't have, what they don't know, and what I don't need. The better they are, the more they sell me things I don't need. And, frankly, I don't like that very much.

This is why I prefer to talk to the person who actually provides the service. The one who gets their hands "dirty". But many people love to create a structure, an abstraction. Even when it's not necessary.

A few days ago, I identified an open-source software solution with two versions, a "community" and an "enterprise" one, but it still seemed approachable. I quietly started running some tests and realized that this solution might be suitable for offering some new services to both current and new clients. Something new and innovative, yet consistent with my philosophy. As I often do, I did some research on the company behind it. I discovered it was a tiny company with extremely low revenue - so low that my contribution could, at least in part, help it grow. Not because my business would be huge, but because it could provide visibility in a market where they currently have no presence. Noticing how few people were in the company, I decided to contact the dev/founder/CEO directly.

A human connection, to understand the project's direction, to see if it was the right fit for my needs, and to potentially fund the development of features I was interested in. I would also explain that, given the cost and my trust in the product, I would use the "enterprise" licenses for my clients, bringing further revenue to their business.

As I often do in these cases, I proceeded on two fronts: I opened a support ticket asking about the status of support for a specific operating system, and I sent a private message to the dev/founder/CEO on one of the platforms where the company is active, briefly explaining my idea.

After a few minutes, the private message was declined (I'm not even sure if it was read), and the ticket received a terse reply, something like "that OS is not officially supported". Period. They didn't even get to the next part, the one where I would have funded development and provided my clients with the enterprise version.

This kind of shutdown is disheartening. Of course, not every startup thinks this way, and the search for a scalable business model is perfectly legitimate. But when exponential growth becomes the only metric for success, the value of the customer and the product gets lost in the process.

It's not the first time, and in different forms, I notice a fairly common pattern nowadays: a certain market just isn't of interest. They want massive clients - or they'd rather shut down the project. It's not a mindset of "hey, I have an idea and I want to build it", but rather "how can I make mountains of money in a short time? Let me find an idea that might work". Why does everyone dream of being the multi-million-dollar startup with a product that "disrupts the market", while giving up on a healthy, organic, clean path of gradual growth?

It’s as if success has been reduced to a single metric: financial gain, where the ultimate satisfaction is purely economic. Betraying your own principles - or the trust of the customers who got you there - doesn't matter. Building a business has become a kind of checklist. The original idea, the founder's spirit, the unique tenacity - none of it matters as much as just following the steps: chase the current hype, promise the world, and do whatever it takes to get to the next stage.

All or nothing. Either you're Elon, or you're a nobody. I recently witnessed a similar situation with one of my clients. Their business was doing well, growing linearly and steadily. They were well-regarded in their market, competent, and valuable. But at a certain point, I saw their best developers leaving due to "disagreements over company policy". I've stayed in touch with many of them, and they explained that they were becoming mere cogs in a machine. In my next meeting with the owners, they told me that their business would be winding down, potentially even closing. "Why? It seems like things are going well!" Their response: "Yes, but we didn't dominate the market. The profits and growth are good, but not exponential. We need to find a new idea, hoping this time it's the game-changer".

Going back to the software, I simply wrote it off. I realized I can't trust the product or the company. They lost a good opportunity, but maybe they don't care. Their primary goal isn't to sustain their product and their idea. They are just developing something to make a lot of money. If they succeed, they'll sell it to the highest bidder (who will then likely perform an enshittification on it just to monetize as much as possible). If they fail, they'll abandon it and move on to something else.

I'll move on to something else - perhaps less suitable, but something that gives me more guarantees of continuity. Because in my mind, there are still figures like Federico Faggin - who left Intel to found his own company, Zilog, because he wanted to continue working on processors when, for Intel, they were just a tool to sell more memory. And there are countless examples like that, of people who had an idea and wanted to extend it, expand it, and then, why not, make money from it. When I witness the opposite - the idea that the goal is a huge, quick profit and the idea itself is secondary... well, I move on.

Not my cup of tea.

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.

Well, let's hope not. But I've lived long enough to have understood some things. Things that, luckily, I managed to understand before it was too late. But just a moment ago, by chance, I heard this melody in the distance. And my mind began to wander...

I suppose someone reading this will think it's too long for modern attention spans. Too reflective, too winding. That I should make it more "digestible", more optimized for quick consumption. How curious, though - writing about the importance of staying true to yourself, only to have it judged by the standards of what "works" online. Perhaps that's precisely the point I'm trying to make.

Recently, I heard news about someone I've known for years but with whom I've had virtually no contact for quite a while. I'm sorry because they were a nice person, but lately, they seem hard to reach. Speaking with mutual acquaintances, I found out this person isn't at peace, and it saddens me. But the root of this is that they're living a life different from the one they, deep down, would have wanted. A life made of deadlines, like a checklist, because the society they live in expected this. None of these things, ultimately, will ever make this person happy. But they must do them, due to social convention. And this is common among many people I know.

"Regrets, I've had a few But then again, too few to mention"

There was a time in my life when I ran the same risk. For years, I felt strange because I didn't behave as society, conventions, and friends wanted me to. As I should have been. Instead, I persisted in being who I wanted to be. But it was tough, at times almost impossible. Compromises were made, of course, but without betraying my essence. Until I understood that I wasn't the "strange" one. I just wanted to be myself, but for many, that precisely means "strangeness". For years, I had little contact with old friends and my places of origin because I wanted to be myself and measure myself by who I was, not by others' ambitions. And I loved that life, and it's the life I still carry with me today. By sharpening my gaze, broadening my horizons, expanding my views and positions, I was able to find a world where I wasn't strange; I was just myself. Because if I'm not passionate about football, despite being an "Italian male", and therefore don't follow it, it doesn't mean I'm strange; it means I'm honest. And this is just the most trivial example that comes to mind.

"I've loved, I've laughed and cried I've had my fill, my share of losing"

No, it wasn't easy at all. I only understand that now, and I had to give up so much. I'll carry many of the scars from all this for life, just as I still sometimes pay the consequences. Especially in the words and actions of people who didn't do this, who didn't have the courage to do it. Trapped in a life not their own, but one written in the book of traditions. In the book of what they must do, not what they want to do. But it brought me what I have today, to do what I do today, to be who I am today. My wife, my work, my life are all positive consequences of this, and of the people who, even without understanding, supported me. Waking up every morning with the positivity to face a day that I already know will be full of things I love to do. And I do them my way. My way.

"For what is a man, what has he got? If not himself, then he has naught"

There was truly a moment when I had nothing. They called me crazy because I wanted to work for myself. I'd look at the silent phone and worry about the bills coming in. I had to pay taxes and, out of pride, I went to paint walls to earn the money to pay them. They told me it wasn't right to make servers stable because it reduced revenue. But I don't know how to (knowingly) do something that could harm those who trust me. And yet - I remember - I never doubted my choices. I was strange, perhaps, but I knew what I wanted.

"Yes, it was my way"

My way. Because my life is mine, and I don't like to fool anyone, least of all myself.

And as I write, I'm listening to this wonderful song, one of my favorites. And a very distant memory, across space and time, surfaces in my mind. And memories re-emerge, emotions return vividly, because music, scents, and flavors possess this immense power to collapse time, to faithfully transport us back to a distant life. Towards a moment and a world far away, yet always near because, in its evolution, it is part of us. And it is precisely tied to a brief moment, a fragment of this music, yet rendered eternal - though unrepeatable - by its poetry, its energy, and that very instant. This too, born from my choices, which, right or wrong, will always serve to remind me that my decisions, good or bad, will have been MINE.

And I will have lived my way.

We met up and stayed at the table until very late. We had many years of catching up to do. Their little girl, to whom I used to bring a small gift every time they invited me for pizza at their place (which happened often, knowing I lived alone), is now a teenager with her own life. I wonder if she remembers anything about me – they say she does; maybe it's true, or maybe they're just being kind.

It was a wonderful evening filled with memories, laughter, updates, and future plans. The goal was to see each other again soon and, as often happens with old friends, that familiar ease was still there, as if not even a week had passed, despite the decade that had gone by.

And this wonderful evening, this rediscovered warmth, brought back vivid memories of a time when their friendship shone brightest: the night of 20 May 2012 – exactly thirteen years ago, today.

As often happened back then, on the evening of 19 May 2012, I went to bed very late. I read a book on my Kindle, then browsed something on my smartphone. I turned off the light around 1:15. I barely had time to drift off when I felt an earthquake tremor. I was born in a seismic zone, so I'm used to them, but I was living in an area considered non-seismic. It's the classic human error: to consider distant events in time (even if repeated) as things of the past, not cyclical. But I didn't know that yet.

I picked up my phone again. I thought, "If we felt it like this here, I wonder what the epicenter (which must be far away) must have felt!". But, after a few minutes, nothing appeared on any website. I decided to turn it off and go back to sleep.

04:04 – I wake up with the bed shaking violently. I hear the sound of shattering glass (I'd later discover it was glasses in various neighbors' homes), objects falling in the house, alarms blaring, collapses – and these were my main concern, as I couldn't pinpoint their origin. I sit up in bed and turn on the light. A few seconds later, the power goes out, plunging me back into darkness. I wait – even though the tremor seemed endless. I trusted in the recent construction of the house (built just 4 years prior) and the good work done by the builder.

As soon as this first jolt ended, the power came back on, though only for a short time. Meanwhile, I threw something on over my pajamas and headed outside. Despite it being late May, it was a cold night. The power came back on again, and the earth started to shake once more, almost as violently as before.

All the neighbors rushed outside – I have a bit of experience, unlike most of them, and in the general panic, I suggested we move away from the roofs: in such cases, the probability of a chimney or tiles falling is high, so the safest place was undoubtedly the parking lot at the end of the street, with nothing overhead.

The tremors continued, one after another, along with the sounds of nearby and distant collapses. As soon as the situation calmed down a bit and the first light of morning began to help, a neighbor and I did a rough external reconnaissance. We saw nothing unusual. The phones, both voice/SMS lines and data, were all down. The only thing working was the fixed ADSL internet connection (so, cable or Wi-Fi). I immediately sent a message (and email) to reassure my parents who, I knew, would be getting up shortly for work and would hear the news on TV. "Strong earthquake, we've all been in the street since 4 – no problems, house seems okay too".

I went back inside and started making breakfast, turning on the TV to get the news. There was only a small ticker at the bottom, a preview: "Magnitude 5.9 earthquake North of Bologna". The tremors, though frequent, were of varying intensity but definitely less severe than the first one.

I hear the doorbell. It's my friend/neighbor. He starts yelling for me to get out, to join them. He's worried about me. He put himself at risk, coming back towards the houses, just to find me and call out.

I reassured him. I went back to my breakfast, then, calmly, went outside again. After a few minutes, an SMS arrived from dear friends who live about 100 km away; they too had been woken up and had run into the street (despite being far from the epicenter, which was about 8 km from my house). Having read about the epicenter, they wanted news from me and were ready to get in their car and rush over. All good, I reassured them. But they started insisting I join them and get away. I declined. I wasn't afraid.

The day passed amidst SMS messages, calls, news, and tremors of varying strength. I took the car out – and saw devastation and collapses everywhere. Meanwhile, my friends/neighbors kept checking on me to see if everything was alright. It was, more for me than for them.

Evening arrived. Everyone organized to sleep outside their homes. Some in tents, others had moved away from the epicenter; my friends/neighbors went to sleep in their car in the parking lot of the nearby shopping center – an area where Protezione Civile had set up some stands for the displaced. They insisted I go with them, parking our cars close together, for peace of mind. I declined. I would sleep at home. On the sofa, next to the front door, but at home. In case of strong tremors, I'd rush out. But I preferred to stay in my house.

The night passed fairly quietly, with many tremors waking me (some quite noticeable) but without events like the previous night. At dawn, I got up and opened the windows. Shortly after, my friends/neighbors arrived, looking for me. They wanted to make sure I was okay. They wanted to make sure everything was alright.

When I left that house, my real sorrow was losing the closeness with these people. Because, in a moment like that, their first thought was to make sure I was okay. Even risking their own safety.

I hope it won't be another 10 years before we see each other again. We have some great plans, and I'll do my best to make them happen as soon as possible.

As I've often done over the years, I started my research online. Unfortunately, as is often the case recently, my searches didn't yield the desired results. I found hundreds of posts and reviews focusing on gaming monitors, not to mention the useless sponsored reviews or the far-fetched ones on e-commerce sites. Ultimately, I tried to piece together the information I could find and convinced myself that for a 24-inch screen, FullHD would be sufficient, provided it had a good panel and some eye-strain reduction certification.

The result? I bought a monitor that only partially satisfies me. The quality is good, but the resolution is too low for my habits and expectations. And I'm disappointed in myself and the research I conducted.

This experience led me to mentally retrace the history of my time online, and what I've observed on the internet for many years.

I remember the dawn of my online experience. For providers, the business was about selling network access and the ability to have an online presence, giving people the chance to reach the whole world. Gradually, shops, newspapers, and information sites emerged. Their goal was to sell their services THROUGH the internet, increasing their visibility and market reach.

Suddenly, someone realized that amidst this vast collection of sites and information, advertisements could be placed. All at once, many sites started displaying ad banners that helped both companies gain visibility and site owners earn a little extra. Search engines like Google were efficient and reliable (I still remember how we "techies" welcomed it) and helped people find products and content.

As time went on, ads multiplied, and e-commerce became dominant. The business model shifted to earning ON the internet (through views, ads, selling services, and products online) rather than THROUGH it. The market changed, content consumption changed. We reached a point where browsing without an ad-blocker became frustrating. Every site, even the most innocuous, bombards you with banners, commercials, and ads of all kinds, so intrusive they compromise the browsing experience itself. YouTube shows an ad every few minutes (unless, of course, you pay for Premium), and it's the same everywhere else.

The problem, therefore, stems from this business model. The internet is no longer a means to reach the customer, but a battlefield to "ensnare" them. Cloud services that are easy to get into but impossible to leave, expensive and restrictive SaaS, a total loss of information freedom, a total loss of control of our data.

And today? The internet seems like a modern evolution of "The Game of Life." For those unfamiliar, "The Game of Life" isn't a game in the traditional sense, but a cellular automaton devised by British mathematician John Conway. It consists of a grid of cells that can be "alive" or "dead," evolving through generations based on a few simple rules applied to their neighbors. Despite these simple rules, it can produce incredibly complex and emergent patterns, almost like a simulation of life itself. Similarly, on today's internet, bots, algorithms, AI, and automated systems manage, create, consume, push, evangelize, politicize, and incite, often with unpredictable and far-reaching consequences. The internet is now in everyone's hands, yet it belongs to no one. We no longer possess the tool; the tool (and those who control it) possesses us.

I shared my monitor experience on the Fediverse. Within minutes, dozens of replies poured in with advice and shared experiences. I should have posted before buying, but it's a lesson learned.

The FullHD monitor will go to my office; it'll be efficient and look good on the desk. I'll get another, more suitable one, and chalk this up to experience. Fortunately, there are still ways to interact with real humans. At least for now.

When my father-in-law saw it, he asked if he could borrow it for a few days. I happily agreed, but my wife warned me not to, worried it might get lost.

A few days later, just as she had predicted, my father-in-law asked if I had taken it back, because he couldn’t find it anymore. Gone. Never seen again.

Not long after, I bought a new one—this time, following my wife’s advice, I didn’t mention it to my father-in-law.

This morning, while I was out, I noticed the lens on my sunglasses had come loose and was about to fall off. I immediately pulled out my trusty screwdriver, tightened the lens, and made sure everything was secure.

I smiled to myself and quietly thought of my wife’s wise advice—and how, without a doubt, I should listen to her more often. And always make sure I have a good backup.