I know I could be a writer because I have a vivid imagination. Where people only hear words, I see tones, meanings and aims that can be far from reality. Yet, they are more than real to me. Reality, for a writer, is fiction. And fiction, sometimes, becomes reality.

I always had this problem. I cannot stick to the apparent or superficial. I give meanings to images, words and whatever. When I write, a great part of this problem is solved. I transport reality, or what I perceive to be reality, to fiction. And there’s also this: if I write based on intuition, sometimes fiction becomes reality. I don’t transport fiction to reality, as a norm.

Just to give you an example, once I thought I hated someone. I wrote a short story about shooting that person and run away. Don’t worry. It was just a toy gun. I don’t know how it happened, but I stopped hating that person. Keeping things inside that I believe to be true is hard. Talking about them is therapeutical. Just because I deal a lot better with the written words, I suppose I could be a writer. 




Life is a balance between certainties and uncertainties. Love is made of certainties and uncertainties.

I have many uncertainties. He could be younger. He could be stronger. He could be healthier. He could be richer. He could be more in love. For a long time the uncertainties dominated. I could not be happy or make him happy.

Now I live with a certainty: he is the best that has ever happened in my life. If one day this is all over, I’ll be sure I had a certainty. No regrets or words to say. I will only conclude that he, like so many people, was more attentive to uncertainties than certainties.


Tell me about love and disappointment. We all experienced both in more or less terrible ways. Are they a sequence or a consequence? Is disappointment a “normal” stage after love?

For young girls, the first disappointment happens very early in life – maybe with her father or brother. The way we live disappointment differentiates us. Not that long ago, I dinned with a friend who said that his disappointment lasts for two years. That’s not my experience. My disappointment is strong but short lived. A question of temperament? As a man, he should get over it sooner than I.

Sometimes I wonder if the way we love and survive a broken relationship is inherited, passing from father or mother to son or daughter, etc. Love and survival. And if by chance that way finds a fertile soil, does it blossom, and makes one happy, and the happiness of the other? Or if the land is barren, only generates disappointment after disappointment… Disappointment is a form of nonconformism. Because we all want to be happy.

Contemporary Dance

This week represents a new stage in my life. It is curious how such stages are marked by dance or any other simple exercise. After experimenting tango, salsa, flamenco and ballet, yesterday I started contemporary dance classes. The internet describes contemporary dance as “a style of expressive dance that combines elements of several dance genres including modern, jazz, lyrical and classical ballet. Contemporary dancers strive to connect the mind and the body through fluid dance movements”.

The first class was good. Contemporary dance has the potential to change a few wrong things about my approach to dance. I felt a strong back pain and was blaming the class, when I remembered that I had bathed dogs Thoth and Keketh before lunch, spending a lot of time and energy in a bad posture. I could have used a chair, but then I would end up soaking. Brrrr. It’s already cold out there!



I realize today that my love life is controlled by panic attacks. Partially kidding, I used to say I was a stressed lover. Well, I am not. To be precise, I am a lover prone to panic. I panic in such ways that I am not able to love, occupied as I am to navigate between such attacks.

All I thought I was and all people thought I was were wrong. Jealous? Wrong. Suspicious mind? Wrong. Vivid imagination? Wrong. A cocktail of everything? Wrong.

When something doesn’t happen according to the plan, I panic. It hurts, physically and emotionally, from my stomach to my head. My external reactions range from sadness to fury, depending on my mood. Passive or aggressive. To know ourselves is exhausting! 



This is the moment when I write down what I’ve been doing lately. Let me see. For a start, working. I’ve been trying a different approach by organizing sources, searching for new ones and more.

I work hard from Monday to Wednesday. Thursday to Sunday? Not so bad. From time to time I can even have a couple of free days. When it’s possible, I use my new freedom to watch horror movies. Some of them are great. Some are not so great. I liked “Handmaiden” and “The Authopsy of Jane Doe” very much – just to name two favorites, so far. The first one is not a horror movie. It’s a period, erotic movie, with a drop of suspense, I think.

“The Authopsy of Jane Doe”, image from the internet.

The Secret

One year ago I was happy. Then happiness faded away. I am happy again. A different kind of happiness. There’s a tricky difference between happiness one and happiness two. I have the sensation that one of them was a kind of numbness. Probably, both of them are.

Happiness is always relative. There are moments I fear that this happiness could be seasonal. I am afraid of losing it again. I am afraid of losing it forever.

One year ago I was trying very hard. Now I am not trying at all. Happiness can be explained outside and inside. When people around us are not supportive, it feels like everything is against us. I don’t feel that sort of pressure any longer.

Almost every Thursday morning I sit to write this weekly post. I wish I could tell you the secret of happiness. I just know that you have to feel comfortable with the body and mind of someone. If you don’t, you are losing your time. Once you like him and he also likes you, the rest depends on expressing yourself how often and how clearly you can. After all, I like words of love but only trust in actions. And I am not the only one:

“Un homme n’est pas ce qu’il cache. Un homme est ce qu’il fait, car, au fond de nos âmes, nous sommes tous un peu les mêmes.” André Malraux