Crazy little thing called Love

Artists create for themselves, before anyone else. We create to save ourselves, to (try*) to understand and order the (apparent) chaos, to elevate ourselves above the common, and often cruel, dust of the days and the nights that pass through us, cutting until we´re forced to choose between humanity and premature death.

As I jump between my dance career, the one which pays the bills, and my writing (3rd volume of my new book growing as we speak), I remind myself the focus should be in enjoying the journey towards the goal.

As a dancer and a teacher, I´m used to have an audience, and its immediate feed.back, to what I do. Nonetheless, this writing marathon I put myself into is a lonely ride with no audience, no feed-back, no applause and no guarantee of an answer, much less success.

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A couple of days I asked myself: if you knew nobody, except you, would read this book, would you still write it? The answer was a round, passionate, unshakeable YES. That´s when I realized this was not a book but Love and love has no reason, no goal, no ambition.It asks nothing in return – it accepts, and embraces life in its purest form: feeling, tasting, smelling, dwelling in the Mystery.
Love exists, and keeps writing, for the sake of love. 
 
(Am (I made of) love?)
I keep doing, doing, doing and doubting; doing, doubting and doing some more, increasingly aware this is something bigger than my story, myself, my dreams. This is, I´ll repeat, Love. 
No why, for what or how in the equation. Love is.
It simply is.
 
*
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When love is not madness, it is not love.

Pedro Calderon de la Barca

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