My first memory of something out of the ordinary dates back to when I was very little… I don’t think I was even four years old yet.
It was August, and with my parents, we had gathered with my aunt, uncle, and cousins to celebrate my grandfather’s birthday.
I remember the house well: every summer, my grandparents and my uncles would go there for their holidays. It was about to become a day I’d never forget.
My grandfather wanted to pop open a bottle of sparkling wine, but it was turning out to be quite a challenge. We were all there, waiting for the big event… that just wouldn’t happen. It was as if the cork was glued to the bottle. It was funny. Amusing.
At first, I thought Grandpa was joking, he’d always been a real prankster, but then it was clear: the bottle was really winning.
That’s when something happened.
Time stretched. Just as I let myself fall into laughter, something clicked.
I had a clear, unmistakable feeling: I had already lived this scene.
Every sequence felt familiar, not like a memory, but like a movie I had already seen.
I started checking, one after another.
Now my uncle offered to open the bottle, while my grandmother handed him a napkin to get a better grip.
It happened.
Now Grandpa leaned to one side, as if wrestling a crocodile.
It happened.
Someone grabbed the bottle.
It happened.
I was stunned.
I turned to my mother, who was standing next to me. I asked her if this scene had already happened before, maybe at another birthday.
She looked at me: “No, it’s the first time.”
But I knew.
Something didn’t add up, because in my memory, I was sitting at home with my parents, watching this scene projected on the screen where my dad used to show the old home movies.
There was a difference: the shirt was a different colour.
Grandpa’s birthday, the battle with the cork: all already seen, already engraved.
I pulled away from that image and looked around. My father was filming the scene with his camera.
The only difference: the colour of the shirt.
Click.
Something settled inside.
I ran off. I retreated in the bedroom. I needed silence, to be alone, away from everyone else.
So it was true. It really happened.
Without thinking, I said out loud: “Ok. Now tell me what I’m supposed to do.”
I wasn’t praying. I had opened a direct line with someone who was clearly familiar to me. It felt like, “I’m waiting for instructions.”
A bit lscene butt I called my “technological dreams.”
Different places, sometimes futuristic, where the action was interrupted so it could be rewritten.
Before doing that, I had to rewatch the scene from above, as if I was looking at a maze of choices and possibilities.
There was always someone with me who explained how I could change the outcome of the dream.
Then I’d go back into the maze and retrace some parts, with that voice following me, not present in the scene, but saying:
Turn left. Now turn right. Stop.
As an adult, I was convinced what I’d lived was a déjà-vu.
Today, especially thanks to the experiences of recent months (summer 2025) and the connections I’m living, I’ve realized it wasn’t a déjà-vu.
I’m not trying to give any official explanation; I can only say that in that moment, a threshold opened up, a curve in my perception of time and space.
If I retrace the scene and feel my sensations again, I think I entered a state of deep resonance with the possibilities of that event.
My grandfather was trying to open the bottle, and I was probably searching for the possibilities of that very situation.
We locked onto the same intent, and the strong resonance between us created the possibility for everything to happen.
Maybe it just had to happen.
Anyway, I accessed a curved time in my reality: a threshold that let me see the same event from a different possibility, a different timeline.
In that opening, I met a future version of myself, observing the scene from another perspective.
So, the memory wasn’t a déjà-vu, but a curved return:
a dance among the possibilities that are, that have always been, and that can come back to touch each other in the present.
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