A warrior never stops his march - May 2019 (english version)

Twenty years is a lot of time, a pile of years for some and, for others, nothing.

Twenty years resembling books. There are non-fiction, novels, fantasy, drama, romance, adventure and travelogues. There are terrible long books, poems, short stories, books that we will never read and others that we wanted to read and still could not.

There are books divided into chapters, with many characters, some entering and leaving the plot many times; others that leave never to return and a few who continue until the end of the story.

Many books have open endings, chapters that leave unresolved issues or mysteries that the writer will not take up; pages and pages turned around without return, fatal erasures and indispensable re-readings.

Incredible, fantastic, indelible books that allow us to choose our own adventure or simply choose between the blue pill, which allows us to forget what happened and remain in the virtual reality of the Matrix or the red one, that frees us from it and leads us to the real world.

I once heard that the opportunity of lifetime must be taken within the lifetime of said opportunity. Making the right moves at the right time.

All this is a whim is to transpolate my twenty years at Orange as a book that represents a great stretch of my life, my autobiography. Opportunities, learnings, friendships, trips, working on what one likes or learned to love, giving up so many hours trying, like the juggler, to keep all the dishes turning on the sticks all the time, still having plans and tantrums by the thousands.

I do not forget (could not) those who trusted me, from bosses, colleagues and my parents, siblings and friends. Everything would have been impossible without that first leap of faith and support from my old men leaving me to fly into the unknown, without Pato by my side, my daughters. They broke distances and were always close.

At times we seemed to be in the Matrix but there were others when we deliberately decided to return to reality. The best thing is to have been able to choose when to do it, to have changed when we felt we touched a roof.

"Look for a new cheese when the old one starts to smell stale" ... Nico (my brother) gave me the book "Who moved my cheese" at the airport the day I left home for the first time; that phrase and others were etched in me. I read the book through tears in mid-flight. A book within a book, like the movie "Bedtime stories" ... this is how this road-trip has been so far  and I hope it continues to be guided by the stars that always shine brighter in the dark sky.