After spending the whole Sunday being absolutely lazy, playing videogames and indulging in unproductivity; I decided to go out for a walk. Of course, rainy and wintery Copenhagen is not so nice to go for an evening stroll. So, as I was walking in the wet streets of Nørrebro, my creative mind started “writing” my next short column for my blog.

Cold wind and some rain drops gently touch my face. Going nowhere, I wander the streets. I’ve been here before. Different time, different side of the world. Just as lost (…)

Writing is a wonderful art. And a motherfucker. Sometimes it flows as an endless fountain of beauty; the kind of beauty you can describe in words that easily come to your mind and become something great. But, most of the times, this bastard of a muse decides to abandon you for days, months, and even years. You become dry of creative juices, and, even, of life.

I have learned, because of this annoying dual nature of writing, that you must embrace it every time it comes to you. So, lately, I have been writing way more often. Of course, not all (if anything) is genius. Yet, it’s there. I didn’t lose it: I used it. My blog and anyone who reads it are witnesses of this act.

Since I can’t know for certain who is reading my blog (although I assume most readers are people I know), I can’t know either what image I have created around my person. Probably in the early days of my digital journal, my virtual persona was more accurate, closer to “the real me.” Going through the same process, a breakup; the tone in which I described my whole situation was way more ironic and humoristic than the tone from now. Maybe it’s because my feelings weren’t as intense back then. Maybe, writing in Spanish made me be more cautions about what I wrote, because it felt “too real.” Or maybe now I am different, more connected to my feelings and less afraid to let them out.

Whatever the case, I feel like I need to make a little disclaimer, an FYI. Because if you don’t know me, the impression you have of me does not concern me. I am who you want me to be, and that’s totally fine. In the end, these words -and all the words I have ever written- are, in a way, Me. But if you do know me, then I do care -at least a little- about what you think. Not because I want to please you or feel accepted, but mostly because I don’t want you to worry about me.

I am as jolly and easy going as you know me. And I have shitty times as well, as pretty much the whole of Mankind does. And instead of just drowning in sorrow, I make those feelings into words. And, sometimes, those words -in a very poetic way- become stronger and more intense than the feelings themselves. For me, it’s catharsis. For you -hopefully not-, it’s a red flag.

So, there it is. I am not about to jump off a bridge; I am exploring writing and poetry. So don’t worry about me, I am fine. But, if you wanna buy me a few beers, I will be more than fine. Cheers!