a (sub)stack of notebooks

a stack of notebooks has always had space in the nearest drawer beside my bed. i grew up in an empty house, where papers were the only way my words were heard.

i always thought i had to be asked to actually speak.

Elena was my Spanish teacher in secondary school, without consent and for pleasure she dedicated one hour per week of her classes for her students to have a writing class. it’s the only teacher i remember from high school. i still keep my stack of writings from that year.

she was a feminist when i didn’t even know what a woman was. she taught us the importance of literature but also about our own writing, before i even knew who i was.

i wrote love letters to the guy i was obsessed with and depressing prose that didn’t keep my grandma alive but kept the memory of her. i still write love letters to my loved ones and i still write to who i think my grandma was.

every school in Catalunya celebrated ‘Els Jocs Florals’, translated as ‘the flower games’ that honored the real literary contest celebrated years ago where catalan writers presented their work and preached the importance of arts.

i never won, but i have several books in my childhood bedroom of my depressing calls for help writings that shocked some other people in my school. always a finalist never a winner.

i’ve never stopped writing, and probably that’s a win. it may be the most constant thing i’ve ever done in my life and i don’t think i could ever get tired of something that has been forever there.