I needed to look higher, to think higher — not focus solely on what was right in front of me...

As words that are trying to rush in, to tell me something, but it's just a concoction of fricatives and affricates and I make no sense...

I just need to remember that the Greek Minotaur, the beast at the centre of the labyrinth, was known by the name of Ἀστερίων, star.

Instead, my F's, H's, and R's look like something a 4-year-old would do, on a heavy dose of Calpol...

Learning to stay, to sit at the centre of the lemniscate is all that it requested of me, right now.

My body aches, my lungs burn. I fear one of my ankles will give way, and that will be the end for me.

That boat was in the still waters. Floating and not going anywhere. The moorings I knew I left behind me could barely be seen...

I am sitting at a café. It’s a very hot morning in La Havana. I can feel my eyes checking the surroundings, a prey looking for her next...

I am here now encouraging myself, telling me I can do it, I want to do it, and that I am ok in doing it.

I am happy. Don’t get me wrong, I am well-mannered, and educated with it comes to engage with other people. It’s just that I prefer not to.

The HB on the paper, with those wide lines in faint black and red. I can see my hand: my very first act of creation. My statement.

She sounded mature, grave, depressed, heavy, damned, charismatic, beautiful, fascinating, alluring, very enigmatic. All the things I wasn't.

I know: this is the beginning of the end.

This feeling of gipsytude in me, of days with no name, not keeping time, not counting hours. The epitome of letting it be, que será, será...

an artist slash writer ⧿ she is trying to make it ⧿ I really don’t know what she does ⧿ but I love her very much ⧿ please don’t tell her...

There is no fucking maze, no fucking wall, no fucking way out because even the way in is a deception.

To be a writer means to write, every day. A minimum of words that make sense and are grammatically correct. Every day.

...explaining : it’s not an exorcism gone wrong, it’s menstrual pain! - to our coach driver while travelling in an Islamic country in 1981.

I want to dress like a combination of Lara Croft, Indiana Jones and Dr Hodgins (satchel and all), be adventurous...

In the background, La La Land soundtrack provides that kind of je ne sais quoi which we all need when writing. A mixture of rhythm, feel...