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I look out the same window over on the other side of the street, at the same tall, 8 stories high blocks, every morning, every day, every night, for the past 11 years. Most of them have a new coat of paint, the narrow roads between them got better with time, the trees got taller… Mainly silent, mostly early to sleep. Some new roof tops appeared at some point, over the old skyline of my view. Other than that, nothing really changed, and as I was preparing my late coffee, trying to figure out how near of far the rain was going to be, since that was going to decide my entire schedule in the next couple of hours, a peculiar feeling started slowly transcending from my subconscious into my mental chatter… Something seemed different, like someone had changed the lens on my viewpoint, not sharpening it, but stripping it of something I didn’t know before. I remembered how I use to feel about these blocks… they looked like anything was possible, like every life unfolding within their walls, every destiny behind those yellowish or dark windows, could be made into a movie, or at least, a string of photo albums. I felt like I was potentially missing out millions, if not more, of magic captured moments. As time passed, that feeling slowly faded, as I was becoming more familiar with all the details… some unchanged, some new for a while, but nonetheless with the same configuration, until one day it disappeared completely, leaving room for a subdued sorrow, the type that looks like the lack of magic… something similar to the lack of a sense of future. It happened so slowly, I almost missed it. My spirit didn’t though, my bones neither. I almost believed this is how your 30s are supposed to feel like, more settled, like you now know shit, and nothing really holds any mystery anymore. And partly it’s true, there are many places which you do know better. But even the places you think you know inside and out, still hold mysteries, and their discovery is yet to come. The truth is, I still know nothing about these blocks I see every day. Nothing was ever lost, it was just a trick of the mind, that sees the same object in its place, day after day, and mimics it unconsciously, while still measuring that against the knowing that the core of life is not sameness, but transformation. The unfolding of this truth finally found its respite on the now perceived reflections of a denser structure.

And I, dancing with the unfolding of that realization, on this suspended blue star, at equal distance between what comes to be and what is a mere illusion, the dream that dies into a thousand other dreams.