In the morning, I sit with the blank page, the weight of silence pressing softly. Writing is a slow opening— a small, deliberate act of making sense of what is unspoken.
I hold the pencil, the words, not to escape but to stay— to find what lingers beneath the surface, what refuses to be forgotten.
There is no grandness in this— only the patience of seeing, the trembling of hand and mind, the insistence that meaning can be born from stillness.
In the end, writing is the quiet love that refuses to fade, a reminder that even in silence, something persists.
