A written notebook

At some point this year I ended up with three books. Then four. Now I have twelve and the one that is on its way. It's not that bad for a person who happened to load half a truck with books in one of the moves to a new house some years ago.

To write every day is not a job nor a hobby. It is a necessity that comes from bowels as if it was hunger. She needs to write the way she needs to breathe. She breathes more than she writes. She breathes all the time when she studies, she breathes all the time on her way to the university. She may write in her head during those moments too, but for sure there is no notepad in her hand in which she notes every word or sentence. However, some phrases remain. Blank pages are only clean for an instant. For her, starting to write does not exist.

I do not care if people do not know me. I know that if I had a wake (which I am not going to) and people started talking about me, they would realize no one really knew me completely. I do not think we are able to know the rest.

Not being able to talk about certain things had put her in the position of trying to be, either fine and smiling, or sad and frustrated about other things.

To Elizabeth and Gregory