Articles

I should be reluctant to write, not even try it. Every single circumstance in my life has tried to pull me away. However, I’m here to tell a story. Not a chronological one, not to share the naked details of my existence. It’s more like fragmented, senseless bits of my love for literature and philosophy. The bizarre, lovely, profound even naive ideas that are with me constantly reminding me that even if I give up writing, the ideas will not abandum me. Therefore, If I don’t do it, I would be inevitably avoiding who I am, and pretending to be who I am not. I may not tell the story well; I claim not to be a philosopher because I actually do read philosophy and therefore, I just know one cannot be called a philosopher just because you study philosophy. I just have a passion, that I can no longer ignore. It is consuming me and driving me, and like Horacio in Hopscotch, I see the metaphysical river of ideas that lead me into this passion. I am a mother, a wife and a Christian. I have enjoyed literature, and studied law, philosophy and some theology. Yet most of my unconventional though comes from life itself. I find priceless contempt in capturing thoughts in ordinary episodes, delight in the most elaborate arguments, and fascination by untangling a great thinker’s thoughts, feelings, frustrations, love, hate. Just that I want to do here. I need no attention because I am old and even when I was young it bothered me. I don’t have a particular philosophical ambition but to just be myself. After all, I am a thinking thing.