Once in a while I ended up imagining myself in a far away place with no material things or known landscapes that I can physically picture. With me, in my mind and the mind of the people that will know me, there are only my collected poems, novels and writings of all kinds, in their tiny notebooks all filled up words of a teenager kind of hand writing. They preserve, gard and keep myself.
A long time ago, when I admit I do not know the kind of dream that could really fit me, I ended up dreaming of me always writing. My family will have to live in a house with at least a tiny corner with my laptop and some papers to let me write. My huge solitary apartment in New York City would have been like the Breakfast at Tiffany’s story, but from his point of view. I would have been the poet, the writer, the girl that fill her diary pages every day or every night with her intensity. At now, I know that she is not me, and that I will not write for my entire life, not even for a huge part of it at all.
The things I know that will stay is another one. Not my attitude for writing, but my material writings. The piece of papers I already filled up in words, the notebooks that I will always put on my suite cases when I will abandon the place I am at to find another new kind of home that could make me live.