The birth of the ink of my pen

To write is to free my soul. It is to free my soul.

The pen accompanies me everywhere, goes through all the paths I take, its ink fills the paper like the hurricanes that ravage my heart.

It is said that the eyes are the mirror of the soul and that the hands are its reflection.

I grab the pen and grip it tightly, sharply. When I write, my eyelids and pupils dance to the rhythm of the pen, gripped by my fingers. It makes me dance and I hold it as if my life depended on it. This dance with the pen defines my life, and like all the ones before, each dance can be our last.

If it were the last, I would surely regret it. I would say to myself that I could have danced better, juggled better, twisted better, bent more. But all this is just regret that would be generated by the enormous sadness that endings provoke, even though they are inevitable. Because when we are together there are no evaluations, no expectations, no obstacles between us, we dance.

I would only have regrets because I would be sad, lost, and I feel that I know too well the heartbreak of this loss. I would be sad because I never want it to end between us and I believe in infinity.

My body hurts, and sometimes I want to stop everything, to let go, my hand is tired, I’m tired … but the pen is infallible. It always has a way of bringing me back to it.

It bewitches me and transforms my life. She transforms everything. I attach myself to her and she detaches me from everything. Time loses its shape and around me everything makes sense.

It is never a waste of time with the pen because it lets me lose my way, but it is never lost.

The ink that the pen pours often comes from my eyes; from the happiness it makes me feel, from the images it allows me to narrate, from the direction it gives me, from the meaning it gives me and that I can then give to things.

The ink that it pours sometimes comes from my warm blood, tinged by the darkness of my perverse soul. From this rough life and the unbearable lightness of the existence. From all that is.

The pen feeds me by emptying itself. It has no agenda, no other intention. It gives itself totally to me and I can only do the same. She gives herself totally to me and I am all hers. She holds my heart deep inside her.

Everything that animates my pen comes from you, Mom. From all the love you gave me by giving birth to me. What a privilege to be born of you.

All that animates my pen comes from life, this gift that you gave me. From all that life is made of. You are my pen and this ink is my being.

You make me want to be.

Mom, your death was never a definitive loss. In spite of everything, in spite of this distance, you will always be there. From your grave under the earth you give me life constantly. Even dead you are alive!

You give me everything, because if I have you, I have everything. Divine, Maternal, I have your unconditional love.

I have everything.

I celebrate you every second, every minute, every hour.

I celebrate you every day, every week, every year.

Forever I celebrate you, unfailingly.

You gave me life.

I can feel your touch and the smell of your skin.

I can see your smile and the color of your eyes.

I can touch your hair and hold your hand forever.