Niñez, dulce veneno

When one day, time passed, I looked at my city for the second time, I contemplated, dismayed, that there was nothing left of "my" city, or perhaps it is more accurate to say "of the city of my childhood". But why beat around the bush? What was left was nothing of my own childhood. However, I was always tempted to believe otherwise. Several times in my life I fought the urge to record some of my reminiscences, as if trying to make them more true on paper than in memory. But I dismissed the idea as stupid and childish. The written word, being subjected to the materiality of a template, is no more truthful than that left to the discretion of memory. I would even go so far as to point out that there are more written lies than silent ones. Now that I have turned eighty and that I placidly admit that I am stupid and childish, I get down to it, aware that every look is deceitful, and the look turned towards oneself is presumptuous, and the most fallacious of all. But conceit is as necessary to the well-being of the human creature as air or bread, and the human being is blind and bold to the point that there comes a time in his life when he disdains the real world (I mean the tangible world) and, turning his head back, firmly believes that only memories are real. And maybe you're right.