Not sure how many times have I written the same thought. Constant redundant repetitions with no apparent purpouse. Brief excerpts of deeper problematics which are yet to be defined. Writting has become a chaotic scribbling exercise of endless disconnected thoughts with no sign of a wider thought process.

As of today, several dozen brief notes fill my notebooks. Doodles have now become intertwined with words, and what long ago seemed like a chaotic notebook page has begun to represent what my writting habits have become. Reality and imagination are now connected by means of doodles. My dad´s fountain pens now live a second live as flowers to the empty white fields. Different tips for different doodles, different doodles for different thoughts.

Writting has become a secondary effort. I draw, and only later I try to explain what has filled the page. I barely sit down to write, and I now find myself struggling to believe I used to write a daily text.

I am yet to find the reason for all of this increased brief notes and maybe then I will be able to improve my doodling. When I was a kid I painted and drew quite decently, and now that I am an adult I wonder if all of this years of writting have only been the training needed to recover the precious imagination every kid is taken away by the rigid social constructs of our cities.