Fortress on the Shore

That girl that would devour the books of her age (I can still remember the charm of the tales, of “The last of the Mohicans”, of the children’s poems, “The Laurel Princess” or “The Valaquian Legend”, for example), passed without any struggle, around the age of thirteen, to read Tolstoi because she’d feel that children’s play was a loss of time. Thus she made her first exercise of patience: to resist and finish reading the descriptions of “War and Peace”, or to not know how the novel ends. Since those years, I always write something, anywhere, on any piece of paper, but far less than what I’d like to.
It was a luxury I couldn’t afford, during those times; simply, a river that returns to its riverbed, at the present.