Hello Steemit, Welcome to my World, You can find me Inside.

There’s no use to it, introductions are never easy for me. It has been this way since I first made use of reason, thought perhaps in some distant and forgotten moment of my childhood, when thought and speech were not so different from one another, I may have been able to do so without hesitation. But now, instead, I have grown fond of listening, which isn’t to be confused with remaining silent, but is of course to be considered insult by some, for in a society that prides itself of its incessant and banal chattering, those who are to listen and speak only few words are to be ill-seen. But I rather not bore you with such details and instead do so by briefly telling my story, which might be after all a tale of fiction and thou would never know, so as to introduce myself to this growing, and I must admit peculiar, community.

Fair warning, English is but a second language to me.

Six years ago I forwent a career in engineering. With it, I renounced whatever pride I carried myself with – momentarily – up to that moment. The tedious years of engineering studies served to educate me in the hardships of studying that which isn’t meant to be studied by oneself and from the moment I made the decision to abandon them, I became no more than another condemned soul, not so different from those that crestfallen and with scorn beg as they walk, and that both mockery and compassion awaken in those that treat them. “Perhaps you can become a waiter” my father had said, trying without much effort to hide his anger upon my failure, and I remember thinking how curious it was, not his reaction, but rather the importance attached to it, how easily I assumed a position of submission and elevated his opinion – but I digress, perhaps this, if you are to grow to enjoy my writing, will serve as material for a future entry.

Thus I launched myself onto the Arts, in an unwanted and unexpected way born of months of mild depression plagued with personal doubt, from ill-intentioned questions and disappointment, disapproval, insomnia and alcohol; the outcome, as you now know, of a superfluous event that ought to interest little to those convinced that there is no greater suffering than that of themselves. Moments like those that so often mould the character of men in so many novels and plays.

It began with a wild appetite for knowing. One that I had not felt before and that first taught me, late as usual, of the necessity for every man to feel true hunger and fear and rage and wonder before undertaking any quest for knowledge. The Phoenix, more than mythology, describes an inner state dormant in all that is willing to break oneself in order to rebuild who one is to then become. Photography, that art that is now so poorly seen by other arts and that has been undone and prostituted by many, was the mother by whose hand I began this journey. I’d enjoy showing you the first picture I ever made, but those days I shot so many and without particular aim, that I’m afraid it be all the same regardless of the image Id choose to show you. I sometimes recall them and believe that I photographed more freely during those days, before the worries of learning and knowing began to clear my judgment: Knowledge, my friends, deprives of certain liberties that ignorance enjoys.

I have rambled on for too long haven’t I? I hope you understand the difficulties of becoming used to the condensed rhythm and rushed prose with which one should write in these times of digital media and ignore the nerve of writing with the same pace with which I talk to myself.

Do not expect of me something other that my thoughts portrayed in these writings and images, for that is what I am, no more than thought that owes nothing to no other but myself – as weary and dense as light and free

And here am I. Trying to give life to something more than a blog, to what in me lies of literary and artist, and of human.