I live the word, I have suffered a lot in life, love, and the world in general. I learned early in my life a lot of things and meanings in my life. Life was very harsh and bitter for me in every sense of the word. I did not find a person other than the word, and I did not see a friend other than the paper, writing for me is the air from which my lungs breathe. Writing is the spirit of the past in the clothes of the present in order to find light in the future.. to erase everything you wrote and start over, on a white paper, repeat what you wrote with other eyes, remembering the words but drawing them with a new approach, knowing eyes, and a heart that beats with sophistication, and thought Mature, piercing eyes, to imagine what you wrote, even if you did not write, to imagine the words, even if they did not exist, this is writing, knowledge from the depth of the past comes to you, weaves it with threads of light that you send down on words that are a chain of sentences, You create from it a reality that is the book, it is the light of the truth with inspiring eyes and creative hands, and free thought soars with the word where it wants and not where it wants. She waits and waits for the word to finish its ring, truth hides its light, and the veil of inspiration denotes its voice.
