Every time I write
Every time I write in a language that is not mine, I get too excited, as if I’d be in the last minute to board a vintage plane which will take to a far and unknown place. My head shakes and the pen on my hand wobbles afraid to write down sacred or evil words. In that moment I close my eyes and I get transported by a strange magnetic force. When I opened them again, I am not seated in my desk. I am in a jungle or in a crowded city with neon signs I cannot read. But they do not frighten me, neither the inhabitants of such a faraway land, be natives or people wearing ties and suits most of them dark. The best way to camouflage myself is to start doing what I see, and if it happens that they speak a language I understand at least a bit, then I start to talk and to smile. Soon I get into a store and I buy clothes as the ones they wear and shoes and sandals as the ones they have, to become one of them. Then I disappear in the middle of that jungle of green or in a long tunnel ...