-PROLOGUE-

I have never considered myself as a person who falls in love very easily. In fact, I do not know what is love, properly speaking. Maybe it is true that I have fallen in love. But for me there were neither flowers nor butterflies. Not a never-ending Spring. To love for me is like a wound, 'a shoot', in the words of one of my favourites Japanese writers. Everything is right, calm, just the life and its usual obstacles and suddenly... You find yourself bleeding, and you know there is no use to ask 'why' (as if there were anyone able to answer, anyway). The more time you employ in thinking this question the most your wound is bleeding. It drenchs your body and soul with blood and the sadest true: uncertainty.


I want to talk about love. What is love? For me, to love someone is to desire physicall contact. I cannot avoid it. Communication between souls is beautiful, but I call that friendship. However, when I am in love there is nothing that I desire more than the touch of other skin. My body is young and my mind has just began to discover the world. My fingers want to play with something else than the keys of my old piano. My body desires intensenly what society considers inapropiate to show: private contact.

I know desire fades, as time rubs out our memories. Slowly. Inevitably.

Life also has an end. And is not that what makes it worthy to try?