My real story

I write because my father was reading. Look at me in that house hall during that time, the furniture was dark, I was also dark behind the sofa. I am this creature whose mother tells him: do not shout, Dad is reading; do not run in the corridor, Dad is reading; lower the TV volume, Dad is reading... Dad is reading. And Dad was doing nothing but reading. Sometimes I sat in his big chair and opened one of these books and imitated his movements. And when I opened it upside down, my mother would mock me. She says: I don't know who is upside down, you or the book. I write because I like to imagine that the book Dad holds between his hands is my book. I also write as if I am a prisoner while my father is the jailer.