The year was 2012.

Some of the authors I know brought new books to market, but i couldn't write that year because I was on a severe depression. Each day was a fight and each night I died a bit more.

Publishers were preparing to publish new talents and I wasn't between them.

People from YouTube, Twitter and Facebook were beginning to emerge as opinion-forming talents, changing the face of Brazilian social media and traditional media.

2012 was the year of change.

Even to me, 2012 was the year of change.

For better or for the worse.

I was engaging a nine-millimeter black and semi-automatic, staring at the black, dark, cold barrel for a long time, stuffing it into my mouth and preparing me to die.

I was 29 years.

My father had died six years before, my mother had a mental deterioration that would lead her to dementia some time later. I was anger and madness, envy and frustration. It carried with me a death wish and a crazy urge to do something stupid.

It was going to end there, one way or the other, all it took was to pull the trigger and all the pain would go away forever. What existed afterwards was a mystery, an adventure for which I did not know if I was prepared or would function as an escape for my failures.

I learned something important that day: I was capable of hating.

I hated my girlfriend.

I hated literature.

I hated my friends.

I hated what I wrote.

I hated what you wrote.

I hated hate and that was enough.

So I understood: when you spend too much time hating other people, you are actually hating yourself.

The year was 2012, the national literature was advancing.

I was stagnant, paralyzed, failed, wrapped in my anger, my mistakes, my guilt, and I would put an end to it.

The year was 2012, I pulled the trigger.