On Writing and Silence

Virginia Woolf said that writing is like walking through fog. You can't see very far ahead, but you can make the entire journey that way.

I think about this often, especially on days when the page remains blank and the cursor blinks with infinite patience, waiting for me to remember why I started.

Writing is not about filling pages. It never was. It's about creating space—for thoughts that have nowhere else to live, for feelings that refuse to be named, for silence that speaks louder than noise.

The best writing happens in the quiet. Not the performative quiet of forced solitude, but the organic quiet that comes when you stop trying to be heard and start trying to understand.

I write because there are things I need to say that I cannot speak. I write because words on a page are braver than words in the air. I write because sometimes the only way to find yourself is to put yourself down in ink and see what remains.

And when the writing is done—when the story ends or the poem finds its last line—what's left is not the words themselves, but the echo they create in someone else's mind.

That's the magic of it. That's the point.

Words are not written to fill pages, but to leave echoes.