“But spring is mine. In the heat trapped between our cupped palms, I hold every spring on earth.” – Dulce Mariá Loynaz, from ‘Absolute Solitude: Selected Poems.’
The writer lives two lives. The first self, the living, the experience, the pure impulse and instinct. The second self, the creative, the slowed psychoanalysis, the agitation for heightened living, the poetic madness. Each fragment of identity, culminating into prose destined for written page. Dissolving into atmosphere, blossoming into illusion. And loving. Loving everything. The point of loving being pure, unadulterated ecstasy. The modern romantic infatuated with all that blooms, engulfed with literature, with song, with poetry, with people, with cities, with jazz. The many faces of light, darkness, agony and pain. An unwavering passion for life, and all its mysticism.