The first day.....

I wake before the alarm most mornings now. Most of the time around 04:00 am. At 54, sleep doesn’t cling the way it used to. Dawn filters through the blinds in soft, uncertain stripes, and for a few quiet seconds I lie still, listening—to the hum of the world, to my own breath, to whatever invisible forces decided I’d get another day.

The house is different these days. Quieter. My two daughters don’t live here full-time. Co-parenting. Already for 15 years now. But later more about that. But the fact is, the 2 lovely ladies presence lingers like a favorite melody. A hair tie on the bathroom counter. A mug with a fading cartoon photo. A forgotten hoodie slung over the back of a chair. Ghosts, but the good kind. Disturbing at some point in the past, but I do know that some day I am going to miss their messy state of mind.

I shuffle to the kitchen and put on coffee. No brewing. Just instant coffee espresso from DE. Hot & tasteful. In my mind I had the same idea about myself when I was much younger. Some things faded away a long, long time ago. I scroll through my Spotify lists, hovering for a moment before choosing something by the mood I am at this moment. Clearly today the starting musical notes are coming from the list I call South & Beyond. Vibes from what I imagine coming from every bar in Brasil, shouting and running out every speaker of every local bar till 04:00 am.... my wake up time,. There’s something about this musical style. It makes me think about tropical islands, holiday immersions and getting-away-tickets from regular life.

By my mid-morning I’m at my desk, notebook open. I still prefer paper over screens. I like to write short stories and poems the way some people garden—patiently, experimentally, sometimes with dirt under my fingernails. Today I’m working on a story about a man who believes gravity is a metaphor. He thinks the forces of the world—love, regret, time—pull on us the way the earth pulls on the sea. I’m not sure if I believe that, but I like the idea.

Around noon, my phone buzzes. A message from my girlfriend: “Lunch later? Miss you.”

At 54, “miss you” lands differently. It’s softer, less desperate, more deliberate. Love the second time around feels like choosing the same road every day, not because you’re lost without it, but because you know where it leads and you want to go there anyway.

We meet at a small café downtown. She laughs easily, the kind of laugh that resets my nervous system. We talk about work, about travel plans. We’re dreaming of exploring next spring—coastal towns, tiled streets, the Atlantic wind in our faces. I’ve always loved traveling. Airports still feel like portals to alternate versions of myself. In one timeline I stayed married. In another I moved to Australia at 30. Actually, I was there turning 30. Backpacking along fields and roads, through mysterious landscapes, impassable dark red dirt roads from the outback and tropical rain forests. Miles and miles rethinking life.... how would James Cook has done it in the days? In this dream today, I’m here, sipping my coffee, grateful and wondering what lies ahead.

In the afternoon, one of my daughters calls. She needs advice—nothing earth-shattering, just the usual crossroad of young adulthood. I listen more than I speak. That’s something age has taught me: most people don’t need solutions; they need space. Their voice being heard.  Without any opinion and value judgement. Just heard. When we hang up, I sit for a moment, stunned at how quickly time has done its quiet work. I remember carrying her on my shoulders. Now she carries her own uncertainties, and I can’t shield her from gravity.

Evening comes gently. I cook something simple, pour a glass of wine, and put on vinyl—maybe some Counting Crows this time. His voice sounds like wisdom filtered through gravel and midnight. As the music plays, I jot down a few lines:

We are pulled by unseen hands,
by memory, by longing, by light from distant stars.
We call it fate, or physics, an act of nature
but it feels like music in the dark.

Later, I sit outside if the weather allows. I look at the sky the way I did as a boy, wondering what moves the planets, what keeps the oceans from spilling into space, what invisible equations balance it all. I don’t pretend to understand the forces of the universe. But I feel them—in love that survives endings, in daughters who grow into themselves, in the steady rhythm of songs that outlive their singers.

By the time I turn in, the house is quiet again. Not empty—just waiting. I think about the man I’ve been, the one I am, and the one I’m still becoming. Fifty-four doesn’t feel like an ending. It feels like standing on a ridge at dusk, seeing both the miles behind me and the road still unfolding.

I set the alarm, though I know I’ll wake before it. Another day will come, pulled into existence by the same mysterious forces. And I’ll rise to meet it—with music, with words, with love, and with a quiet gratitude for the gravity that keeps me here.