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  • Two years ago my sister came to visit me to Hong Kong from Chile.She brought a diary I had when I was eleven years old.It was amongst the treasures my mother kept all those years before she died and I never remember that I wrote my thoughts as a child in that little book.The book was brown and looked old to me . I was holding it in my hands excited and scared.It was the real Pandora box with any kind of surprises waiting to be let out.I do not remember many things of my childhood.Maybe a merciful veil was placed in my memory to forget things I was not suppose to remember and then suddenly that memory was in front of me.I was for a long time trying to decide If I would open it or not.I was terrified of what could had been there.Finally my curiosity won and the writing of a very young girl was facing me.
    I always wrote poems and I do it until now.One of the things I do remember in high school are the praises of my teachers about keep on the path of poetry.We make plans and life make other plans for us and we end up in such different paths to the one we wanted.
    I was expecting to read about my life at that stage so somehow the mystery of my lost years could be discovered, but the pages were full of poems .They did not seem to come from the mind and hands of an eleven year old.They were about life, disappointment,deep sorrow, love, betrayal, forgiveness, God,Death,coming back after life and so many things that there are always in my writings today.It was like there were written by an old soul inside a girl's body.I guess the body grew up but the same soul is still here with me.When I remember the book I find difficult to believe that a child at that time could had had such a deep feelings about those things when I am sure all her friends were playing in a garden somewhere.
    I choose a picture of an Indian girl with deep eyes and I wonder If what happened to me ,could happen to other girls.Maybe the perception we have of childhood is not real.
    Picture by Cecilia
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