Looking back, I see that was not the story. It was the plot.
The story worth telling is the answer to the question: “who this person is going to become after being turned into words?”
But how could you live and have no story to tell?
These are words following me since my years as a teenager. Blame Dostoyevsky and his White Nights for their echoing beauty, a book I read maybe too early in life.
By 27, my sleepless nights of working hard as a small entrepreneur in Romania, eventually showed me the jackpot. A big contract that promised my way out of endless struggling and poverty. It held many risks. Still, looking behind, I could not see anything there, so I said yes to the chance and to the unknown.
It started hard, it turned into bad and it ended into a nightmare that had stolen ten years of my life, my youth, during which I had to choose constantly between two things to survive my challenges and my opponents: the right thing and the smartest thing.
I did the right thing…
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