When I was a child, I spent most of my afternoons in my parent’s library, dusting the shelves and sneaking a look into the forbidden section, that’s where I found a file full of ancient letters which I adventured reading between their secretive lines. Within these yellow pages, I met new people I never thought I would ever encounter. Throughout these sneaky afternoons I would hide between the shelves and introduce myself over and over to my distant father, someone who is young foolish and genuinely romantic. My musician young dad who fell in love with my shy flirtatious mom. The sneaking around, the long nights of yearning, the agony and separation they had to go through to finally end up together and have me come to life. Those people I never had the chance to meet in my distant present; it was as if unfolding the secrets of the past and living beyond time and space. That was all introduced to me within the layers of their constant letters, which they carefully hid. Upon my discovery I contemplated for hours after each reading I would stay still fascinated by the unspeakable power of the written word. And how much of the universe, I’d come to discover. How I could bring the past to meet the present and the future to create itself; how I could break the boundaries of time and the restraints of space. How I could penetrate the heart and mind, the soul and essence of a person beyond reach and beyond sight. I was instantly entangled in those reviving emotions of my parents, the resurrection of their history, had me see the pleasurable addiction of my future,

and for now writing has become the

Hunting occupation of my present. 

Serving that muse I would pledge to write, aiming to resurrect the dusty past, recreate the present and encounter the hidden ventures of the unknown.





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