Today, as I was returning from a trip to visit my family in the eastern part of the country, I found myself thinking about many things. One of the most meaningful was this: we can only live one moment at a time.
That idea takes on a special weight when we ask ourselves: what is the real difference between living 10, 20, or 80 years?
A child, a young person, and an adult would probably all share something essential: the surprise of facing death. The difference lies not so much in that feeling, but in the kind of memories each one carries. Every stage of life leaves its own marks, and because of that, the memories formed along the way change as well.
But memories do not depend only on the number of years we live. They also grow out of the decisions we make, the lessons we receive early in life, and what we learn from our mistakes.
In my case, my life today is just one timeline among many possible ones: a future made real by my decisions and by so many events that were never under my control. If I were to die today, that is what I would remember.
And I have nothing to envy in someone who walked a path very different from mine and lived what I once desired, because in the end, those too would only be memories. I could imagine them, and in some way, live them in my own way.