I wake up every morning. I give a kiss to my kid. I prepare coffee for me, a cup of chocolate for my kid. I feed my cat. I open my computer. So far, everything seems normal. But it isn´t. In this strange dystopia, I can´t go out of home, my family and friends are a potential harm to me, and me to them. My kid can´t go to school and I´m his teacher now. I also teach to my students online. I try my best to write in my free time. But I have not much of a so called “free time”. I try to read, yes I do, but my concentration is not rocking it. When I get to dream I have nightmares. But the sky is still so blue. And the rain feels just as it used to do. I do remember the world we used to have: a world of hugs and kisses and friends reunions. My kid misses going to the hammocks at the park. And he misses his friends. I do to. Do we have the words to describe this world? Is it language enough? How can I write fiction in these strange days? I have more questions than answers, but I think that writing has saved me. Even when I do not write every day now. Even when I don´t like much of what I write during the pandemic nights. Writing saves me me because it reminds me of who I am, and of the choices I made in my life. I am concerned about the world that comes. And I also feel really sad because of these painful days. But I hope we will find the light after these survival times. Literature has taught me that it takes an odyssey to find the best version of ourselves. I hope we can.