Darcocyte would have never existed if I had abandoned its conception; if I didn’t push through the fear and difficulties of writing a book; but also, I didn’t abandoned because I have non-conformist ways of assessing my environment; I undertake things through my individualistic persona that tends to anthropomorphise almost everything… I guess that I’m an animist underneath this lent skin.

I think that my personal interaction with objects tends to nullify any kind of want or need to abandon that which comes from the deepness of my core. I know that looking at things in such odd ways looks like as if I’ve already been contaminated by madness, but I feel that writing has shaken things inside of me that has accentuated my eccentricity; this push towards that place where you need to deconstruct so as to recreate has strengthen my passionate attachment for what I do.

I tend to address my finished stories and poems as my babies because they were conceived in the womb of my imagination, while birthing out straight from my mind, making me feel as if extended members and roots sprouted out from my own self to reach the world. Thus, I can’t abandon something that I feel forms part of my being.

I believe that it’s passion that permits the artist to go through their work with serenity and enjoyment, and this, without any kind of reward or encouragement. It’s the passion to make my imagination concrete that fuels my determination to write and publish, and where the aftermath is clearly another story. But as for that part of concretising ideas and thoughts into stories, poems, or blog posts, I am way too passionately driven to abandon their realisation; too attached to these extensions of my imagination and personal experiences.