I find remnants in my home of things that are half-finished. Small daily failures. The leggings and the running top that have been hanging in the bathroom for two weeks, optimistic. The vinegar and the rice paper wrappers I bought at the Japanese week at Lidl, convinced I would make Goi Cuon, fresh Vietnamese rolls. The three books started on the bedside table. The analog camera that I proposed to myself – once a month – to learn to use once and for all. A table, which was more than a table, it was an investment to do a lot of work on and earn a lot of money. Versions of myself that I can't decide on. I want to be all of them at once out of cowardice, because I don't believe enough in any of them.

I'm hesitant to write about it. I'm not sure where this thread I want to pull will lead me: whether it will unravel everything or if it's just a loose end. I'm also hesitant because this topic has already been discussed enough. And quite well (my colleague Claudia Darder, in fact, reminded us that "We have the power to be happy", in a Substack publication on this subject).

I'm saying goodbye to my twenties and beginning my thirties. In a couple of days, I'm supposed to enter true adulthood, although—for all practical purposes—the only change I'm going to experience is the immediate loss of all my Carnet Jove discounts. I've been assuming we're 30-year-olds for so long—that's what happens when you turn 30 at the end of September—that I don't feel like I'm entering this decade, but rather rushing in, lifting a weight off my shoulders, as if it were already late. Until now, I felt in limbo: there were no longer any justifications for doing certain things, because I was already 29 (going out partying on a random weekday, for example); but also certain other things, because I was still 29 (deciding to stay in on a Saturday night, for example). Twenty-nine is like honey and sugar, like a free year's subscription to your twenties, that is, without any benefits. Or like a sabbatical year, one of those people take to reflect before making a decision. It's just that 30 doesn't happen for you (although there are those who, voluntarily or involuntarily, end up stuck in their twenties forever). Thirty arrives, period.