I like writing. It makes me feel useful, like that little child I once was, but now I do have a fluent and original handwriting. A handwriting I’m proud of calling my own.
Some people don’t understand my handwriting (well, just some words). Others love it. Many people don’t care. “It’s a handwriting, gosh, it’s not a book!” they may say. No, sir, it’s a handwriting that can turn into books.
I like that possibility. Some letters make words, some words make sentences… and then BUM! You have a story. It’s like when you encourage a friend to talk to the person she likes and you feel frustrated because both of them are really shy… and then, all of a sudden, they’re making out in the corner, or in the bus, or even in front of you.
I like the idea of literature being that silly couple making out in front of everyone: passionate, wild, young. Literature has to surprise you, sometimes even bother you with its fierce.
I like thinking about books as little portable expressions of emotions that you can get into wherever: in the corner, in the bus, in front of everyone… You just turn a page and there it is, a whole new world. Sometimes it is sad. Sometimes not. Like couples, you see? Like human beings.
I like being a human. I’m able to feel lots of things, even the ones I never imagined: the written ones.