I always wanted to write a book. I don’t know if I can write stories, but I need to try. I like to create my own reality, which is basically some kind of that only one true, maybe more intense, more condensed, because it’s a story.
I would like to travel inside a language to describe my world, or other world, which could be mine, could be adopted to be mine. I need to understand, and I will never stop to try to understand. When I’m talking about “understanding” I mean to understand my lover, my friends, other people, and the whole world. Why we need to always look for things that we don’t have, and what we have is never enough? Why we need to hurt, or to destroy, to damage? Why we don’t look for things that we have in common as humans, but we always look for things that differ us? Why we cannot be happy, but we like to be unhappy?
I want to understand, I want to see things from all directions, like cubists, like Picasso did. The only way could be to understand people, to knew them, to talk to them, to listen to them. To travel to them…