She thought that her night would end in that novel that she had recently started reading. One of the most beautiful loves of his life: historical, full of lovers. Being someone who is passionate about reading, she is fascinated by touching a book and savoring its content.

She passes through the heart the beautiful event of decoding the author’s soul, what led him to “write” himself like this? And that’s because she always wondered about people’s choices and what it takes to risk being brave to show herself to someone else, the one who exposes her “everything” in the text.

And observing authors, she discovered herself an author. Admiring love scenes is how he dared to literarily capture his own. Learning from that sublime art of the beautiful conjunction of words, is how his being began to find meaning in writing.

She did not stop, since she was a child she completed lines, enthusiastic, in the eagerness to pour out her life with that pen, she understood that the world is confusing, and that everything made sense with a sheet of paper and a little ink. Even her thoughts, somewhat complicated, deep and chained, had another color, touched the harmony, touched the human, knowing that she was not capable of generating something that was special.

And she knew she wasn’t special. She knew that she had nothing to offer but a somewhat linear, normalizing life path, with a perspective to stand out, probably with some other formal academic merit.

But what she did not know is that many blank pages awaited her, many loves, a lot of reflection to write. I had breaks to show and a lot of darkness that I needed to illuminate in the light of the words, which came pouring out.

And I think that she was not fully aware of what her words as a whole could cause or even if someone could make it easier for someone to illuminate aspects of life that are covered because they cost, because they hurt, because they blind or because they require us to take awkward decisions.

When he was able to see even a tiny wisp of this, it began to show. And to reveal that it hurts her. Names, images, places, songs, promises, expectations hurt her and that, with all that, she is also very happy.

She wants to show that she doesn’t have everything figured out, that she is broken and, many times, in need. She wants to show that, with her words, she accompanies those who, like her, cannot, find it difficult, need and are or want to be happy.

She realized that her sincerity had a response in some who chose to read her reflections on life: when she was raw, inspiration arose as elemental healing, on which she had already become dependent.

And I want to tell you, that today you took three minutes to read me, that “she” is me, but it is also YOU.

You are that person who trips, trying to show that, raw, you can also choose to be happy, show a smile, dance, fall in love again.

It is you who I know deep down believes that not everything is lost in the face of so many people who are not very committed to the well-being of others, in the face of so many who choose to hurt at the cost of a little well-directed attention.

It’s just that I see it so clearly: I write and I see you, I perceive you, on the other side, hurting other names, other faces, but holding a wound that has the same shape as mine.

In all this I find you, and you find me, and you come to mind, protagonist of my stories, inveterate readers, stubborn seekers. Owners and mistresses of my words are you, whom I thank…

She thought that her night would end in that novel that she had recently started reading. But not. His night ended thinking of all those who once took three minutes to read it, to choose it for three giant minutes.


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