Today I Finally Present My Book: Now is Tomorrow

But that tide didn't arise overnight. It built up little by little, almost without me noticing. It all began with small changes: the appearance of the first PC at home, the telephone connection to the Internet, forums, the first emails that seemed like magic. Then came smartphones, which brought with them the possibility—and the curse—of being available always. Social networks multiplied the open windows to the world, but also the internal windows of expectation, comparison, and urgency. The cloud turned every file into something accessible from anywhere, which was an immense advancement... but also a constant reminder that there was always something more to attend to.

None of that was negative in itself; in fact, many of those innovations transformed my life for the better. The problem wasn't technology. The problem was that I hadn't learned to live within it without losing myself. I hadn't learned to distinguish which part of the rhythm was real and which was self-imposed. I hadn't understood that acceleration wasn't an isolated phenomenon, but a framework that was shaping my way of thinking, working, and relating to others.

Like many, I tried to maintain balance between work, obligations, personal aspirations, and that invisible layer of hyperconnection that had become part of the landscape. Sometimes I succeeded; other times I just survived. And in the midst of that back and forth, something in me began to awaken: a kind of intuition, almost a murmur, that reminded me that this rhythm wasn't sustainable. That no matter how much technology advanced, I was still human, with a finite body, limited attention, and a deep—almost ancestral—need to understand the world I inhabited.

The idea of writing a book didn't come from literary ambition. It was born from that murmur. From that need to put words to an era that runs through all of us, whether we like it or not. From letting myself fall inward to understand what it means to live—and not just survive—in such an accelerated time. I wasn't looking to write a manual or a treatise. I was looking for something much more intimate: to find a map that would help me not get lost, and perhaps, if I was lucky, accompany others who felt the same.

That was the true beginning. There was no revealing moment or day underlined on the calendar. There was a need that, over time, became clear: to stop, look, listen, and understand what it means to be human in the midst of so much speed. A simple gesture, but profoundly transformative: to pause in a world that never stops pushing forward.

And that pause—that small act of internal resistance—was the seed of *Now is Tomorrow*, a book that was born not to impose answers, but to open spaces. To breathe. To look honestly at the era we've been given to live in and ask ourselves, without fear: how do we want to inhabit it?

To talk about this book without talking about how it was written would be telling only half the story. I always say that two of us wrote it: me, with my contradictions, my open questions, my partial certainties, and my attempts to give form to the intangible; and Artificial Intelligence, with its ability to expand, organize, and return ideas as if they were polished mirrors.

AI wasn't a shortcut. Nor was it a modern trick to attract attention. It was an interlocutor. Sometimes, even a provocateur. I would come to the process with an intuition, an incomplete phrase, a topic that kept turning in my head. And it would force me to concretize it, to nuance it, to defend it. It returned my own doubts transformed into more precise questions. It showed me possible paths I hadn't seen. It pushed me not to settle for what first emerged.

That relationship changed me. Not only as a writer, but as a person living in this time. I understood that AI, if used consciously, doesn't replace human creativity, but expands it. That it doesn't subtract depth; it demands it. That it doesn't remove responsibility; it amplifies it. Because, in the end, every word, every choice, every approach was still mine. It proposed, but I decided. It organized, but I felt. It showed patterns, but I found meaning.

That's why I say this book isn't simply about the coexistence between the human and the technological. It's a book born from that coexistence. Its structure, its tone, its depth, and even its questions are crossed by that dialogue. And I believe that in that mixture—sometimes harmonious, sometimes tense—lies the authenticity of what I've written.

When I closed the manuscript for the first time, I realized I had written something I myself needed to read. Not a compendium of theories. Not a collection of practical tips. Not a hopeful discourse or a catastrophic diagnosis.

I had written a perspective.

A perspective that tries to answer questions that, deep down, we all ask ourselves at some point:

• How do we maintain clarity when everything competes for our attention? • How do we make good decisions when days seem to compress? • How do we work with AI without losing judgment, voice, integrity? • How do we learn in a world whose rhythm gives no respite? • How do we build our own future when uncertainty seems to be the norm?

I don't give magic formulas—technological magic is already provided by others—but I do give something I consider more valuable: a set of perspectives, practices, and structures that help you hold on when the environment becomes too noisy.

This book doesn't teach living "more slowly." That's not the message. The world isn't going to decelerate. What it teaches is to live more awake. To recover that silent lucidity that allows you to see clearly even in the midst of chaos. To train presence as if it were an essential and forgotten muscle.

The original book is divided into seven parts, but when I think about how the reading is experienced, I see it more as a journey of three great movements. Three waves that follow and support each other.

Before talking about presence, decisions, or AI, it was necessary to understand what's happening around us. Not from nostalgia for simpler times, nor from rejection of the modern, but from a kind lucidity: how have we arrived at this collective feeling of always being behind?

I explore technological acceleration as a phenomenon that has shaped our way of thinking, working, and relating. I talk about the personal computer, home Internet, smartphones, the cloud, social networks, and finally the arrival of accessible artificial intelligence. But it's not a cold chronology: it's an emotional landscape.

The feeling of fragmentation that many of us experience isn't a personal failure, but a natural effect of living in an ecosystem where information, expectations, and rhythms exceed human capacity. Understanding this liberates. It allows you to stop blaming yourself, it allows you to breathe, and it allows you to look at the present with more compassion.

When one understands the terrain, the question appears: what do we do with this? And that's where the book's central proposal comes in: presence. Not as a mystical idea reserved for monasteries or silent retreats, but as a concrete, everyday, functional tool.

• Presence to decide better. • Presence to distinguish the urgent from the important. • Presence to reduce the mental noise that exhausts us without us noticing. • Presence to work with less friction and more clarity. • Presence to relate to technology without being dragged by it.

In this part, I talk about neuroscience, mindfulness, daily rituals, micro-practices that can be applied even on chaotic days. I talk about silence as a form of intelligence. I talk about the body as an anchor. I talk about how to train the mind so that it becomes a habitable space and not a field of storms.

The final part of the book is also the most intimate. Here I talk about how to transform what's been learned into action. How to convert clarity into movement. How to design life, not from anxiety about the future, but from the depth of the present.

I explore how to apply AI to real work consciously. How to learn continuously without collapsing. How to cultivate creativity in times of saturation. How to reinvent yourself without breaking. How to create more human companies in a digital world that tends to dehumanize.

And, above all, I talk about the small gestures. Those that don't appear in strategic plans, but that sustain any real transformation.

If I've learned anything writing this book, it's that the future isn't built in grand declarations, but in small decisions repeated with presence. Tomorrow isn't a distant destination: it's the consequence of what we do—and how we do it—today.

If I had to condense the entire book into a single phrase, it would be this:

What is truly human is choosing with clarity.

AI can generate texts, images, projects, and processes. It can propose paths. It can optimize tasks. But there's something it will never be able to do: decide what makes sense for you. Choose what life you want to live. Choose what you want to build.

That's why this book, although it talks about technology, is at its core a book about humanity. About the part of us that cannot be automated. About the profound freedom that is born when we recover our attention.

Presence is, perhaps, the most powerful form of intelligence we have available. And also the most neglected.