My head is overflowing.
Really.
My head is a construction site.
It never stops.
Scenes appear when I walk, when I fall asleep, when I pretend to listen to someone talking.
Stories demand their place.
Sentences impose themselves, without warning.
Ideas everywhere.
Like a messy room, yesterday’s dirty dishes still in the sink.
Scenes in the shower, on the bus, at the exact moment when I should be thinking about something else.
Characters knocking on the door all at once, without standing in line.
I have too many stories.
And that’s very good news.
Fragments, novels, projects barely born and already too alive.
Soft texts, burning texts, funny things, others darker.
Proper desires… and others much less so.
Unconfessable.
Sometimes I laugh by myself thinking about what I could write.
Sometimes I think: damn, I’m going to have to tell everything.
I don’t yet know what will become a book.
Nor what will remain a spark, a page, a detour.
But I know it’s bubbling, that it burns, that it insists.
I write because it makes me feel good.
Because it excites me.
Because it helps me breathe.
To let things settle.
And so what if everything doesn’t fit into a single box.
All the better, even.
The stories are here.
They look at me, smiling.
And I fully intend to open the door for them.
