The boy in blue.

It started there, in 1999, when I finished painting a daffodil and kept looking at it with an orgasmic feeling. 

It started there, in 1999, when I danced as if the birthday party was mine and I couldn't stop being a character in the center, in front of the camcorder. 

It started there, in 2001 when the literature teacher gave me 17 out of 20 because my short story was too good to be written by a child. 

It started there, in 1997, when I escaped the second week of the first grade to go on an "adventure" among a patch of trees on the way home. 

It started there when I was 7 and fell in love with her first and kept thinking of her until I met her for the second time at 15. 

It started there, in 2003, when I plucked my eyebrows at 13 like a "girl" and became a vegetarian, and preferred watching the sunset in dial-up internet time, in a religious country under dictatorship. 

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It paused, whenever I had to present, exhibit or explain it to anyone.

The thing, that thing was too precious, too private to be given a human degree, praise, or recognition.

That thing, that inevitable thing was too real to be labeled.

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I accepted the lie and the label, when they called me an artist, it was more practical. Like small talk that at best acknowledges the presence of another person, and that's maybe its external function; a sign post. 

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That thing, that urge, to experience an experience, translate and transform an experience started then, and perhaps it continues regardless. That thing, that is independent of an external observer, or audience.