That's why I write

«It's hard to be vulnerable, the burden of yesterday's days weighs heavily; it's hard to be honest when telling the truth reveals a new portrait you don't recognize. And yet, you are you, the sum of all those past selves.

It's me, that me, the one who doesn't dare look at me, the one who doesn't listen because she fears the noise of her own voice more than the silence that comes with the loneliness of being quiet. It's me, that me who came into being because I wove her into being, who came because I shaped her through wounds and setbacks and surrenders, through yielding ground and losing corners and edges and ceilings. It's me, that me, and all the others who shrank until they disappeared, those who still remain, despite me, despite the dark passage of a life lived without daring.

An antique wooden table is softly illuminated by a lamp, depicting a traditional writing setting with a quill, inkwell, candle, and several books, next to a window that reveals a winter landscape.

That's why I search for myself in my writing. I try to find myself, to recover those shadows of who I was, vague, elusive silhouettes of something that sounds good, that I liked, even though I've forgotten it.

That's why I write, that's why I suffer when I do, that's why I pour myself into every line and fade away, not remembering what I was talking about when I finish. Because in that beautiful trance that is writing, I become myself again, and all those versions of myself that were lost.

Because in writing, I achieve a reunion and I begin to piece myself back together. That's why I can't stop doing it, because while I write, and while I dream, my fingers return to me the truth of who I am, and my inner world draws a little closer to my truth, and it calms me, and heals me, and fills me, and soothes my tears, and softens my walls.

One day I hope to find the answer to that great question: Who am I?»

Maite R. Ochotorena