Els dies que m'habiten

Ever since I was old enough to write, but small enough not to know exactly what "living" meant, I sat on the tiny balcony of my room at night, with a pillow on my lap and, at the above, a notebook. He wrote. I wrote what I thought, what happened to me, ideas, possible songs, emotions, contradictions ... Writing made me free. It made me fly. Little by little, I realized that everything I wrote down on those sheets, often in a messy way, shaped and structured my thoughts. And I've never stopped doing it. I have boxes and drawers and more boxes full of notebooks that explain who I am and how I am, and most importantly, why I am who I am.