Solo los valientes

There are dates that order our history, dates that are principles. We like to put borders on that transition of diffuse contours, which may not even exist. We want to condense it into a single day and leave it behind forever. A frontier day that tells you where the before is, where the after. But what date to choose? The day I found out? The day I started testosterone? The day of the operation? Or the day I started writing this? If I had to choose, I would take that day in Santa Fe when I crossed a roundabout on the left. Those two stapled pages arrived seven days before taking a place at the Hospital Sur de Granada. No one would know my secret. And despite what happened next, that is still my frontier day.