When you write, you design a world that suits you, you paint the subconscious illusion about society as your canvas, you don't listen to rumors and with ease you poison the paper of the same ink that runs through your veins, giving shape to an alternate dimension, and every day you walk on this rope that you invented between reality and what you wanted it to be, with the danger of falling you still interrupting the course of anyone, with a desire to stop the world and go, you dream at night leaving traces of thoughts accumulated and mixed with cigar match on the edge of the pillow.
One day you get up or on the way somewhere you stop, you know you can't go on anymore. In the middle of the noise, the smoke and the words you want to hide a pot in the depth of time that transports you to another side, but that assures you ... - you stop to think - that alone in your solitude don't break to cry for the same loneliness. You want to scream, you want to swim, you want to fly, that happens to you when you write, you're like flying in the clouds, giving shape to your particular life with something intangible and not unreal.
But you keep writing because you know that it is your only escape to your perfect ideal. And then, you distance yourself so much, but so much ... that you lose consciousness and forget that others also need your touch and sense. That is why you write so that you don't forget that you are free, that you can think, you can sing, that you listen and meditate. That you are free in your own individuality.
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