Mónica Chaves Afonso

In the sweltering autumn of 1970, I cried, for the first time, to fulfill the ritual, because when you're born, if you don't cry, it seems bad.
It happened in Lisbon, the capital of Portugal, three years and six months before the end of the Tarrafal massacre.
I grew up free, what incredible luck, I always said what I wanted and nobody took offense.
I entered the world of arts at the dance school of the national conservatory, followed by theater and traditional teaching.
I chose the world of chemistry to specialize in, and I discovered amazing stories within molecules.
Isn't it amazing that they have a will of their own and play with electrons? And what about the colors and shapes they create inside the balloons?
Then, I wandered around, saw other customs, other people, and became addicted to the variety of divergent horizons. I unfolded myself and discovered that this business of generating life and watching it develop is a return to the planet I abandoned when I grew up.
That's when I decided I should share some of what I've seen out there, playing around and rhyming.