How many exactly identical points could coincide on the same path?
 
Later, you'll only hear the echoes of each decision:
 
the magic in the moon's spin, its indelible mark.
 
Chances interweaving your steps, and uncertainty as your only baggage.
 
Moments always incandescent like indestructible candles.
 
Crosses and memories, curves and patches.
 
You know that on every map, a balance is drawn:
 
The question is how many heartbeats will you choose?
 
* A SHORT POETIC BIOGRAPHY
 
There were the photos of the tent in the middle of Cazorla and the white Seat 128, the Pentax ones, the Kodak color ones, we did the rest, the ones of the roads and the straw bales in the national rally championships, the one of the incredulous kid on Aspar's motorcycle.
 
And upon returning from each trip, reliving the adventure: setting up all the gear, untangling cables, turning on the slide projector, and listening to the sound every time the photo was played. Sunday afternoons at home, the flickering light on the screen, the memories, saving the passage of time.
 
I already had the impulse, the meaning of looking. All of that grew inside me. Years later, there were my escapes and my returns, I changed places and views, I wanted to be a drift, determined to conquer that same light. The veiled light that always accompanies memories.
 
Then came the first secondhand SLR, the basic manuals in a library near the sea, the toy cameras, the old Polaroids and the Nikon I rescued from the trash, the cheap rolls of film in threes, the wait at the doors of the development shops, matte please, 7x10, thank you, in less than an hour, an introductory course in the lab, pressing the button without thinking, the company, the shot from the heart, the diaries and the meaning.
 
Times changed, nomadic ideas grew, and the notebooks overflowed every year. But even today, still and as never before, the impulse remains to return to the warmth of that light.