I don’t know what I want to write, I don’t even know if I want to do it. I only know there’s something inside me asking me to do it, even if it’s just so that in the future (a distant one, I suppose), I can come back here and see how time has passed.

I always hold myself back from publishing anything out of shame, laziness, or simply because I forget I want to do it. I lie to myself.

But I have to do it. I’m tired of consuming and being consumed by content all the time. I want to do something that’s mine, I don’t want to spend my free time caught in a spiral of reels, shorts, TikToks, or any derivative.

And now (2025), with this whole rise of AI, as it seems we’re going to lose our place at the top of the creativity pyramid, I think it’s a good time to start, as always, late.

In short: why is it so hard?

The last time I enjoyed writing was perhaps in school, when they asked us to write essays about our weekend.

It is always said that beginnings are not easy; then, when you start, the complicated thing is to be persistent, and when you have already achieved those two things, you realize that what is truly difficult is to finish.