Twilight has arisen to warn me. My hands start to write and my eyes are blurred by tears caused by my laptop screen wanting to interrupt me, but their trivial attempts have no strong effect on me because I am a person tied to the spirit of letters; which saved me from living in a realistic and hostile world.
My father didn't like me to read weird horror and science fiction books; much less my mother. Their faith did not allow them to see the beauty in the ugly, the extraordinary. Their minds were plagued by creeds and regimes rejected any environment of beauty beyond prayer. Several times they tried to make me give up, but to no avail.
On the sly; as when you have a forbidden lover, I began to read the stories of the great writers of the past. I searched for them on the Internet, since it was impossible to get the books in physical form in my town. I delighted in the stories of Poe, Williams, Ruben Dario, Quiroga, Lovecraft, Tolkien, and other writers.
Their ideas drilled so hard into my head until they reached my mind that one day I decided I wanted to be one of them. Yes, I understood that it was difficult, the life of a writer is often filled with hardship of bitterness, but that didn't stop me from trying to get my way.
I was a kid with a dream, excited and full of life. I met something that gave me purpose; something that elevated my faith to live. That child is still alive deep in my gut. Sometimes he falls asleep holding a Hawthorne book or is surprised by an unexpected ending to a Poe story. That child is still being nurtured. He will belong to my heart forever, and when I become an old man, he will still be young and with the same spirit.
I wanted to belong to those worlds created by my imagination: to the world of vampires, fairies, ghosts, goblins, mythological Greek creatures, etc. Once my brother found me reading one of those horror books I love: "The Castle of Otranto" by Horace Walpole. I have always been afraid of my older brother, as he is much more passionate about religion than my parents.
When I felt his presence coming, I immediately closed the book and tucked it under a cushion. He had noticed. I didn't comment and remained silent like a ghost that doesn't manifest itself. He, on the other hand, had a gentler, meeker face and made a gesture on his lips that looked as if he was going to laugh.
The boy was hungry and wanted to finish the Castle of Otranto, he already belonged to that medieval world with ominous and tenebrous walls. Of knights and maidens. Of unexpected events. Of invisible and mysterious entities that decide the fate of men. The boy got tired of waiting and went to sleep, and I did the same.
Minutes later, someone knocked on my bedroom door, I shouted for him to come in, and to my surprise it was my brother. He wore a smile and his eyes were soft. His gaze was softer than usual. He held out his hand where he was holding my book and handed it to me.
"Do you really like fiction writing?" he asked me.
I nodded my head no more.
"Then I want you to become the best writer in the world, just like those authors you read. You have a lot of imagination, make the most of it!" Then he turned and walked away.
I felt a pang in my heart. It was the first time someone believed in me. I didn't expect it from a member of my family, much less from my older brother who is so stern. I went on with my life. I became one with the books, then the boy wanted to write, and he began to create his own stories.
The child was satisfied. He has created belonging with the page and the pencil, then with the keyboard and the screen. He has elaborated many worlds and characters, and since then, he has been unable to stop.
THE END
