I invent because i don´t get enough out of life.
I feel clumsy and imperfect, and out of place from the beginning. Living causes me such bewilderment that creating gives me relief.
Sentimental artificiality does not interest or thrill me.
When I die, life will go on without me, this pushes me to submerge in the void. Death, will be the final solution for what i can not imagine.
I want to go places I have never been, invent stories that give me the tools I need to keep on walking, proving to be irrepressible to delve into my desires and fears.
I start fires to question the constant in my life, its strength and stability.
It is me and my opposite, my back, the antagonistic part of me that holds me erect, I have to scream and jump sitting, keep my miseries afloat, fly over the ruins of our successes, I need to jump from a trampoline that falls on rock, search for shooting stars looking at stones, shoot straight, trigger an unprecedented stroke of luck.
I feel weak, alone and silent. I am overwhelmed by human vulnerability, and the fine line between the living and the dead.