It's been a long time since I've sat here to record words...
I need stillness, to walk, to (re)remember that I cannot do without this to (re)discover a world, which expands me and gives me meaning. There is nothing new in this. But every time I can enjoy the luxury of silence, time, slowness, I (re)discover with amazement what I already know. I made a crossing that I cannot undo. From time to time – certainly in a shorter interval than it has been – it is necessary that I frequent this place that I have made for myself without my realizing it.

Loose path. I don't want to walk inside the park, because walking inside the park involves an "inside", containment, contour that limits. I want to walk free, draw with my body the path I decide, like a shy person flâneuse , making lines on a map. I am free, observing my surroundings, letting my surroundings affect me. A little bird comes very close to me, there are graffiti walls, there are posters pasted with thought-provoking phrases, poems, people pass by, sometimes we greet each other, sometimes we don't; The trees shade here and there, the blue-blue sky imposes itself, I drink coffee, exchange words with people and read. I always read.

It doesn't matter what I read, non-fiction, something for work or my research, fiction, poetry. It doesn't matter. I need to be between words, with a mechanical pencil and a highlighter in my hands – my way of trying to leave a mark on the text and on me, of keeping the words longer with me. They constitute me, composing the fabric that makes me me. In these luxurious moments, I feel that I hold time in my hands, I devour it, tasting its various flavors. It's pure delight. I nourish myself with time and words and I feel very much myself.

In "The Arrival of Writing", Cixous states, in his always powerful words:

* The text is always written under the sweet coercion of love. My only torment, my only fear, is that of not writing as loud as the Other, my only regret is that of not writing as beautiful as Love. The text always comes to me according to the Source. If the source was barred, I wouldn't write. And the source is given to me. It's not me. You can't be your own source. Source: always there. Always the brightness of the being that gives me the A. May I not cease to seek, may I furiously desire with all my strength and with all my senses. Source that gives meaning and impulse to all other sources, that illuminates history for me, gives life to all the scenes of reality and offers me my births to every day.
It opens up to me the earth and I throw myself. She opens my body and the writing launches. The beloved, the one who is there, the one who is there, always there, the one who does not lack, who does not fail, but whose every sentence asks for a book - and each breath inaugurates in my chest a corner, a there that does not disappear and that, however, I do not "find", that I do not close, that I do not "understand", a limitless for my limitless, the being that gives itself — to seek — that awakens and relaunches the movement that makes my heart beat, that makes me lift the ink and go to seek further, a questioning, tireless, insatiable eternity, an answer that poses a question, endless (pp. 59-60).

I wrote the paragraphs before this long quotation from Cixous without remembering it in its entirety. Only-after It was when I wrote them that I remembered this little fragment: "May I not cease to seek, may I desire furiously with all my strength and with all my senses " , a phrase that left a deep impression on me. In the margins of it, in my book, I wrote a single word: Prayer .

Rereading the full paragraphs of Cixous's passage, I see how much it contains, to some extent, much of what I said earlier. Most of the time, we can only know how much something we read has remained in us a posteriori , how much those words, conjugated in a certain way, captured us, gave body and contour to what was in us and, many times, we did not even know it.

Cixous never ceases to summon me to writing. May your phrase resonate, summon other women. It is only possible to live voraciously, in the fierce search. I then remember another woman, Adélia Prado, who tells us: "I don't want a knife or cheese. I want hunger."