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For at least the last twenty years I have been asking myself why I want to write. More precisely why I think I should invest my time in writing.

Probably, the majority of people would say: “Because you enjoy it!”. That’s logical but it’s not the truth, at least not in my case. I can’t say I enjoy writing like I enjoy playing soccer or eating a big steak with a bottle of good red wine. Neither, can I say I’m this typical tragic writer, isolated and misunderstood by the world, living his art alone, as a romantic poet of the nineteenth century.

I remember a long time ago I read a poem of Vicente Aleixandre, who described how a poet is: someone who can feel energy through his feet from the ground. This energy flows through his body and goes outside again through the words of the poet. So the poet is not the only owner of the poetry, he is just something like an intermediary.

I think for me it’s a need to get out ideas, worries or thoughts that are flying around in my soul.

So, maybe, writing is something similar to tasting a small portion of freedom.


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