I once believed—wrongly—that life does not exist on its own. That if it is not told, if it is not narrated, it is little more than something that simply happens. I thought understanding required storytelling, one of the many possible versions, even if only for oneself. And although narration restores life only in fragments, life is not what it is because it is told. I now know that life is what it is because it is lived. Still, I continue to surrender to that same impulse to narrate. I know I will keep working as I always have: from intimate abysses toward the enchanted realm of outward exorcism.

I escaped from an asylum. Yes, that is where I come from. And truth be told, I enjoyed drawing on its walls. Now, with the flight I longed for, I accompany this new expedition. I have cried out like a wounded phoenix. I have been a wolf who remembers wandering through lands of fever and adventure. I have been a vigilant owl at the nocturnal horizon of a book that was being written with end credits full of hope.

They say I am strong, that time and again I will take flight. They say the story is unforgettable—and yet I have forgotten everything about it, except for the memory invented by my imagination, which insists on presenting itself as truth. What I remember is a reality that has always existed, and which gives its name to this new caravan that I patiently fly over, watch, and protect.

And even though I have cried out again and again, even though I come escaped from an asylum, I am not mad.
I have already turned many corners, each one demanding caution and trembling. Now I turn another. I set out with iron limbs, firm skin, watchful eyes. Like a young collector, I carry passions inside my portable desk.

And this is how my new journey begins.