[font="times new roman"]People often find it strange that I, a cinephile, have never seen The Others. They feel that it should be a top priority, because I share an unusual trait with the film’s child protagonists: while I have not physically shuffled off “this mortal coil,” I do exist in a world of little sunlight. After suffering painful reactions to ultraviolet exposure during my childhood, I was diagnosed with Erythropoietic Protoporphyria, an enzyme deficiency that renders me incapable of processing sunlight. Since then, I have carefully juggled this condition with a dynamic lifestyle that cannot be quelled by something as thought provoking as darkness, and either in spite of or thanks to it, I have learned to thrive.
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[font="times new roman"]Adaptation has been integral in checking any potential atrophy of the spirit in the absence of sunlight, but I cannot honestly say that such adjustments have proved unfulfilling; contrariwise, many have opened new doors. Perhaps, due to Spain’s blistering sun, five years of Spanish language and culture study will not be put to use beyond Lorca and the cinema; all the more reason to study Russian. In another vein, I have, in lieu of sunlight, adopted the colored lights of the community theater, flourishing as an actor under the white lights of the stage and as a stage manager beneath the blue masks behind the scenes. In the glow of artificial lights, I have shared national choral championships with friends bound by a love of music and have helped to instill in thousands of children an appreciation of the dramatic arts. That alone has made venturing into the light rewarding.
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[font="times new roman"]While it would have been simple to quarantine myself, I am hardly a victim of cultural isolation, thanks to the books and films that line the walls of my house. This wealth of paper and celluloid, utilized well with an abundance of time indoors, has exposed me to student protests in Paris, to the gulf between South America’s social classes, and to prejudices and faiths in areas of my own country still so remarkably foreign to me. I have opened my eyes and imagination, thanks to Hugo and Orwell, to misery and dystopia, and Sartre has forced me to observe and to question every facet of my world as it currently exists or, perhaps, does not exist. Where I may have been detached, then, film has made me passionate, and where I might have been mute, literature has given me voice.
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That is why I write. In a refusal to be powerless, with the need to exercise control over my voice and to inspire as I have been inspired, I create. Through my writing, I have defined for myself a personal truth, a broad yet intimate faith that ties me to the world in which I live and lead. Stories, I feel, have done more to shape my character than digging for seashells could have, for I have learned from my time out of the sun how to glow in the dark.