There are days when I feel misunderstood, even by myself, when my poems cost me only a few tears, when my words touch only a few desperate thoughts, when my poetic life wounds only my burdened soul and lasts only a few scattered moments.

There are days when I take refuge behind my unspoken writings or behind chains forged by negativity, behind my pen, which rewrites a new story from my stitched scars.

There are days — every day, in fact — when my sensitivity is very high, when it is difficult for me to accept such vulnerability.

There are days when I pick up my notebook and begin to unveil my heart, my soul, my emotions, so often drawn to moments when everything becomes clear, when everything harmonizes, and reaches my deepest self, in all my poems.

These days, I need to show myself with my whole being that I am here, everywhere, in my writing, sincere and authentic, imperfect and sometimes not so strong, but that I am here, everywhere, useful to myself, even if I am not in the eyes of the world.

These days are like a bridge that guides me to the right place, even when everything inside me screams that I am lost, that I doubt myself, that I don't believe in my own worth or that my life has meaning.

They are reminders that make me stronger, more confident, and more self-assured.

They are the ones who wake me up, inspire me, motivate me to continue believing in life, in its value, in my own worth, to simply continue, to believe in my writing.