Poetry remains close and embellishes everything.

These notes contain my footprints, and as they unravel I seem to reach those fierce moments, those first days, when my life started to shape up in order to become who I am, and to find out which people have had an influence on my growth along the way. Complicated love and hunger are taken more lightly when seen from a distance; from a distance crows are bigger and summers are longer, homes are homier and grandmothers are wiser. My notes are the map of everything I have walked and of all the projects I have either abandoned or fulfilled. Checking my notes I can confirm that the image of the world that I dreamt on doing ended up turning into a self-portrait outline, to say the least. In some corner of the world, or my town, the part of me that could have been, but isn’t remains; In some place I’m still just a Venezuelan girl, an immigrant; In some harbor I must probably find myself still raising the anchor so others can leave, or hewing the soil so others can eat; Those who now listen to me, because I am not who I was intended to be. In some place the man I was intended to be with has finally given up and stopped waiting for me. All of this doesn’t seem to bother or worry me since you can only live if you come to terms with the present, without past attachments or torment coming from the idea of the future. Enigmas surround me and this is exciting, but I also love reason, although it only explains the artificial part: I describe what I can because changes in nature are constant (or sometimes things may seem the same, but they really never are). However, I take comfort in the fact that each thing is a concentration of its totality.