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Minus six, and it is already anguish

The same ritual is repeated every year: around six months before the fateful date, I begin to get used to the idea.
I tell myself my new age so that I don’t risk making a bad impression after my birthday, attributing one year less to myself (something that happened to me many times before I learned).
Clearly, there is also the idea of understanding that time is passing, not infinite.
That it must be used profitably.
That it is not to be wasted on the wrong people.

The problem is that next year it will be 40.
And the truth is that never in my life has a number distressed me as much as this one.

I write this here for one reason only: I hope to be able to reread it one day and laugh about it.

Update
.mau. has already found a way to make me laugh about it: ‘however, think that 40 is only a stage to say 42’.

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