There are times when I wonder about the meaning hidden in the act of writing. If writing is more than the action that reveals and opens up new questions as a discipline capable of measuring the intensity of an emotion, even sadness, to turn it into a real fictional space. Discipline that gives meaning to the uncertainty of living and not knowing, to the illogic of present and not differentiate between a state in which everything endures and prevails. Sometimes, as now, is this distraction melody, where this is extended to embrace the memory of what has not been. Because they are images that are kept outside the boundaries of consciousness, there, where only the new way of interpreting the stimuli and to define reactions influences. Write. Firework light illuminating your face, in the midst of an impenetrable darkness. Worlds of shadow. Universe of chairs where you can see only shapes. Tables around us, with his own life. Doors. Crystals blurred and the possibility of the impossible, achieving, without even understanding the passage of minutes, clinging to the hours I know. Tranquility that covers me, above all the darkness of silence are shadows, the warmth of your face on.
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