Every Wine Is Completed with Its Own Vintage. With Its Own Season, Its Own Time.

Rain is falling. Slowly, like catching one breath at a time... The raindrops streaming down the window are caressing the glass. On a late afternoon when gray clouds have covered the city, I sit by the window with an old lamp light on. On the table -- a bottle of wine holding a deep ruby glow. Looking at that glass, I sink into contemplation. "I need to comfort myself." Everyone carries their own story. Someone builds a high castle, someone loses their way. But life is not a competition but a journey. A journey where each writes their own story at their own pace, with their own weight, in a way that cannot be compared to anyone else. And I want to believe I am also living my own story. Yesterday there were unusually many contacts from junior colleagues -- friends who started together during the training period in the social affairs department. We used to stay up all night in the press room sharing instant coffee while making our rounds of police stations. That time when we had nothing -- but perhaps those were the days we were richest. Wine too is like that. A wine that does not change -- that does not exist. Every vintage is different. The sunlight of that year, the amount of rain, the temperature -- all of those become flavor. And that flavor becomes the story of that wine. My story too is being made that way. Slowly, quietly, in my own vintage.