Burned half the afternoon browsing my oldest e-mail inbox. I seldom delete e-mail messages that do not fall into the "spam" and "advertising" , so everything is there since the beginning. Fragments of a life so old that it seems to have belonged to someone else, but not to me. Correspondence about school works. Futile attempts at arranging a team evening with dinner and pub. Scattered notes from me to myself about long abandoned stories I thought then I would shape and write. Warm messages from friends that are beyond my reach nowadays. Blog comments' notifications, being the blog - this blog - the only bridge I currently have to that past. Love e-mails. One. Bitter conversations through e-mail. Irrelevant things. A live within the inbox, as if it was a cardboard box where we store away our adolescence things. I don't even feel nostalgia when I read all that. It's not me, it's nothing to do with me. Back then I was a positive person (yes, positive), a warm person. I believed in myself. I had ambitions. I had dreams - I dared dreaming. Not anymore. Life, with its many circumstances, made me grow cold, detached, rational, aloof. No one saw that coming, not even me, and I'm often very good at predicting where my steps will lead me if I do nothing (I never do). That person to whom all those e-mails were sent over three years ago, that person is no more. Is dead, somewhere. And left behind only the sticks and the stones.