Why do I write?

Why do I write in this world? An interesting question. Because it transmits everything to me, because the soul asks for words. I look back on my past, seeking other answers. In my birth, I find the company of the verb. Once I was word, sound written upon me. My first body was a notebook, in which you enunciated baby. Mom, you summoned me with your creative power; mother, you brought me to this world of characters. You wrote in my journal, in our journal, a story together. We added new passages in my childhood, and we continue to build our stories. Because we know how important what's written is, because we understand the magic of the word.

Why do I write? I go on. I wonder. I’m in my early years, learning to play with signs. The world claims a noun present in meaningless sounds. I exist in infinitive: I accept the times. I emulate oceans, invent currents, and attract the seas. Not only do I communicate, but I also learn from little shelters of expressions; I keep in my words universes that attract me. I'm surrounded by certain books; my spirit is not ready. But I write because I can’t stand so many stories without telling them.

I write. I understand. I begin. I understand. So I swam with dolphins in Australia, ran through birch and cedar forests, visited many lost Greek temples, and gave myself to the written word. I became a great magician, reality conjurer, and I immortalized my stories. I write to breathe in the worlds that I wish to create, because in them I want to endure. With my mother, Mother Luna, I mean Muna. With my dad, absent father, Wild Sun. With my brothers, three stars, one system. With my grandmothers, Big Abuna, Big Melena. With my grandfather, Sol old man, mathematician. With my uncles, with my cousins and nephews. All together: the snake and the cub, the dragons and lions. Because my diary is more than a notebook: it is infinite, that I pronounce from the syllables of dreams.