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I have this permanent kind of doubt: What I am doing here, in this planet, wearing this life that day after day stream across a singularity of spacetime? I hope that God (or the gods?) will understand me, or us, if this also happens to the sympathetic reader. At my age, and being a war refugee from distant lands, sometimes my mind wonders, chasing the past with the hope to find clues for my future happiness, clues that may help me to survive. With this hope, until now futile, my spirit flies over the city where I was born and I visit each corner where I used to be, to play with other kids, I seat in the same seat where I attended school and almost listen again the repetition of the lessons I once heard. Next, I stay in front of my family, seeing they as still young parents and me, just a kid. Other times, I visit in spirit that small and hidden street where I used to listen a piano streaming music through the ethereal space, when I returned from school. The black kids selling peanuts in the streets, poor, but happy. The sudden change from rain to sunshine. The smell of the earth returning alive from beneath the surface of the red ochre sand where once my little feet of children walked. Well, this exercise has been futile, as I said before. It just remind me of the present, is a weird process to live the present, to remind me of the sweet love that is alive in the core of my heart. Sweet love…

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