When I speak of silence, the first thing I ask myself is — what do I really mean by it? At first glance, it feels like a simple question. But the more I sit with it, the more layered it becomes. Most people think of silence as the absence of sound. In conversations, it’s the absence of speech. Between two people, silence is often defined by what isn’t said. But to me, silence isn’t just about what isn’t heard — it’s also about what isn’t received, what isn’t registered. So I began to wonder — is silence just the absence of external sound, or is it something else entirely? If I sit in a room by myself, one might say I’m surrounded by silence. But am I? The fire hums faintly in the corner. The clock ticks by steadily. A vehicle passes somewhere outside. Even in solitude, sound exists. So is it silence just because no one is speaking? Then I thought: suppose I’m in a vacuum. There, no air means no sound can travel. It should be perfectly silent. But even in a vacuum, I would still be...
Why do people still write? It’s not a question I ask lightly. In a world that seems to be drowning in words, spilling from screens and books and voices, why does anyone feel the need to add more? What is it they’re hoping for? What do they expect to find? Maybe it’s the need to be seen, to be heard in a way that feels permanent. Maybe it’s the hope that, in the labyrinth of human experience, someone will stumble upon their words and feel less alone. Or maybe it’s simpler than that. Maybe people write because they’re trying to understand themselves, to make sense of the chaos that churns inside them. I used to believe writing was an act of brilliance, reserved for those with something extraordinary to say. But now I wonder if it’s something much smaller and humbler than that. Writing, I think, isn’t about saying something new; it’s about making sense of the old, of the familiar. It’s about taking what we already know—love, loss, joy, regret—and holding it up...