I remember him.

I remember him. I remember he used to be gentle and sensitive; he used to see the suffering in others and allow himself to walk alongside them in their pain. He was constantly fascinated by stories, by fantasy, and he was always imagining, placing himself in marvelous scenarios, other worlds, being a character in an exciting reality.

He was moved by music beyond words and imagined what the future would look like if he surrendered to sounds and dedicated his life to making music. He was excited about what was waiting for him on the horizon as he started to learn how to play an instrument.

Despite being shy, he was open and deeply glad he got to meet a lot of people and be involved in their lives. He got to experience the pleasure of vices, sunrises filled with ecstasy, love, friendship, hatred and envy, sleepless nights, anxiety, loneliness, and pure joy.

I remember how slowly but surely he lost his innocence; he became aware of darkness, disappointment, and frustration.

I remember he wanted to stop living but also knew pure calm, a quiet happiness, and the fleeting perception of his existence, the ethereal world of an instant lost in music.

He became me.

If he could look into the future...

¿Would he be happy?

¿Would he be dissatisfied?

¿Would he change or surrender to his path?

¿Would he be embarrassed?

I'm his future.

I am now, but I wasn’t.

I was before, but I am.

I will be, but I won’t.

I wonder if the old man is writing the same thing right now, asking me with a gentle smile if I would be happy about him.