Escape?... The question strikes me like a bolt from the blue. Whilst other children of my generation, back in the 1960s, no doubt fantasised about climbing over the fence and discovering what lay beyond the horizon, my world was bounded by a much more intimate and secure landscape. My short answer will always be ‘no’.

I grew up under the wing of two Andean parents in a Venezuela that still retained that silent, respectful rigour of provincial life. In my home, discipline didn’t require shouting; it hung in the air, in the weight of words and in that overprotection which, in my case, was a suit of armour. My visual impairment during those first ten years of life made me the centre of a family solar system dedicated to looking after me. I wasn’t a child who sought out the street; I was a spoilt child, glued to books and board games.

I was that model pupil, the one who never gave Mum a single cause for complaint at primary or secondary school. My rebellious streak had nowhere to go because there was nothing to rebel against. I remember that the harshest punishment I received throughout my childhood was a pinch on the palm of my hand. A minimal pain, almost symbolic, which for my sensibilities at the time was enough to understand the boundaries.

How do you escape from a place where you feel safe? In those years, when the world was for me a blurred watercolour of light and shadow, my home was not a prison, but the only place I could navigate with complete confidence. To run away would have been to give up the warmth of my family, and for a child who learned to see with affection rather than with his eyes, there was no destination outside the home worth the risk.

Hi! Everybody (friends), if you've made it this far, THANK YOU! You are welcome to participate; the link with all the information is below. But I also hope to read your comments in the reply box. Thank you for joining us in these waters of HIVE.