The crystal color of the creek in my homes’ back yard touches me.
The flow of its water stirs me.
The cold touch of its temperature awakens me.
The fog that hangs over the creek during the morning’s freeze in my homes’ back yard moves me.
The fog that hangs over the creek during the morning’s freeze in my homes’ back yard carries me to ethereal worlds.
The daisies that loyally follow both sides of the creek, adorning it, raise in me a smile of gratitude.
The drizzle that gently blends itself into the water of the creek in a delicate ballet calms me while wetting my face and kissing my soul.
The storm that defiles the creek’s water disquieting and shaking it in a frenetic way awakes the sleepy gladiator that lives inside me.
The sun and the breeze that finally prevail over my creek after the storm’s finish caress me calming me down and lifting my spirit.
Therefore, why do I write?
I write so the release of the internal explosions that the creek of my homes’ back yard provokes within me can flow out.
I write because I have the intention to bind myself to the creek through my words and through the torment and the shouting that my creek rouses in me.
I write because I have the desire to be in its flux, in its color, in its perfume.
I write mainly to be in my creek’s surface and to receive, in communion with it, the gentle drops of rain during the spring.
Or, during a duel, bonded to my creek to fight against the army of the rebellious waters from the storm that now confront it.
I write because the spectacle of my creek enchants me.
I write because in this way I intend to preserve my creek’s virtues.
I write because I feel with my thoughts, with my words.
I write because I have a fever to speak, to reveal my creek.