"As I grew up, I started to notice that blood wasn't the only chemical running through my veins. I used to be given wounds and scars, from falling in the playground running from children. I saw the blood at first, then as I grew older I started noticing them. Words. They were hidden and I didn't pay them much attention because I didn't care about them; at all. 

But later, I discovered I found some fun in them. I had a title, I would write a poem, and then I would read it to everyone and write it everywhere. 

I started to write stories, I called them born from inspiration. That was when I first felt respect for those words running through my veins like they were trying to tell me I wasn't going to escape.

But I didn't feel caged at all; I felt okay. I was okay. I didn't know what I was doing, but did it matter?

It was all so beautiful, but none of it was finished. It isn't finished yet, of course. But the thing is: it is not okay anymore. Everyone doesn't know my stories, everywhere doesn't read my poems. Writing isn't running in my veins, it is in my nerves, in my brain, in my legs and in my arms; it walks beside me like I've created a living representation for the words, it demands what I shall write and lets me create something now and then, and we live like it together. It changed so much, it came with my madness. But was my madness responsable, or did it tell those words that it was the right time for them to tie me? 

They don't want to hurt me, but they can't expect me to understand them immediately, when people found me talking about writing like I almost never read about. 

And I laugh about it, I sit to think about it, I exhaust about it. But it's useless."