I wander around the house, aimlessly, without thought. I sit on the couch for a while, look at the flowers, the sky outside. I get up, go up, then go down again. I go to the bathroom, I pee. I keep walking around randomly, and I look at the house, the floors, the walls, all the objects around me. Everything looks strange. I feel half out and half in. Leaving, but not yet gone. Halfway, between today and tomorrow. But what's in between?

There’s an entire world, actually. There’s the anticipation of nostalgia and melancholy. There is a sense of emptiness that I try to fill by wandering around the house. But I have nothing to do, how is that possible? What did I do during my days before? When did I sit on the couch, get up and on it again? Why can't I remember? And so the perception of a house you’ve lived in changes, in a matter of hours. It disguises itself with a mysterious lacquer: suddenly it seems that you have never lived there, but also that you have never set foot anywhere else. All the memories invade me, but they also seem distant, as if they didn't belong to me.

Leaving this city doesn't seem real to me. Where have the last three years gone? They have whizzed by, like a high-speed train through a mountain. Have I really lived them? I think about the change I've gone through, how much I've transformed, how much I've learned, gained, and lost. Three years ago I didn't have everything I have now…I wonder: will I have as much in three years time? As humans, we are so mutable, adaptable, and capable of holding infinite experiences. I feel like I’ve reached maximum capacity, but I know I most definitely did not.

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