My spiritual encounter with Reading.

Perhaps it was sailing through the Arauca Apureño caisson, or maybe it was beyond the Cunaviche, or it was beyond Meta or beyond Cinaruco, maybe it was in the activities of the coffee plantations or maybe it was in the beauties of the land of Canaima and its impressive and imposing Angel Falls.

Perhaps it was the men of corn who spoke to me about the town of Macondo and yellow butterflies, or perhaps it was the transit through Las Casas Muertas and Office No. 1 who gave me my first lights of the kindness and calamities that accompany the black gold.

Perhaps it was in a place of La Mancha, riding in Rocinante, or perhaps it was in conversations. From Sancho with Don Quixote, about a decent little girl named Ana Isabel. Or perhaps it was in Faust's tragedy or in the adventures of the helpless little Oliver Twist.

Perhaps it was in the Metamorphosis or in Zarathustra's words, or perhaps it was in the solitude of the steppe that the wolves lay. Or perhaps it was on a tour of the convent of Mariabronn, while waiting for the bonguero to whom the river spoke.

Maybe he was crossing the bridges to infinity, or maybe he was watching Juan's flight practices, a wise seagull. Or maybe it was when I dared to eat the Twelve Grapes of New Year's Eve.

Reading had always been with me, she had been my companion for many years of school and high school. But I didn't enjoy it, I hadn't touched my heart. It was an unexpected and wonderful meeting that filled my heart with great joy. So much so that I felt inspired to write a poem dedicated to Reading .