[The Birth of a Writer]
Night has come again,But it wasn't darkness
It was the silent riot brewing within me.
Billions of people live in this world,But some… don't truly live.
They breathe, they walk, they speak.
But inside, they are crumbling day by day.
"I am one of them"
My life wasn't a grand tragedy,But it was a long, silent war.A war no one saw, no one heard,Yet it tried to swallow me whole.
"You cannot."
"This is not your path."
"You are just an ordinary person."
These words weren't enemies from the outside.
They were swords born from my own mind.
Some days I would wake up,Without knowing why.
Some nights I would sleep.Doubting if tomorrow even needed to arrive.
There were people around me.
But there was no one who truly knew me.
There was only writing.
Words…
They alone had the time to listen to my grief.
Every word that fell on paper or screen
Was a wound from within me.
I wanted to be a writer.
But there were days when even that desire
Felt like a burden of guilt.
"Isn't this all in vain?"
"What will you get from this?"
"You don't need such big dreams."
And yet…
There was a small voice inside me.
A very weak voice.
But it never went silent.
"You must write."
I had no wish to be a hero.
I had no dream of saving the world.
I only wanted one thing
Meaning for my pain.
Writing did not save me.
But it allowed me to live.
Some days, I cannot write even a single line.
My hands tremble, my mind goes blank.
Then, I feel as though I have lost.
But I return again,Because if I abandon writing,I would be abandoning myself.
This story is not a success story.
This is not the story of a king.
Nor is it the story of a mighty warrior.
This isThe birth story,
Of a broken mind,
Of a desperation,Of a writer.
I am still afraid,I am still doubting.
On many nights, I stillCannot find the answers to my own questions.
But…
I write.
That is my revolution.
That is my weapon.
That is my life.
Whether this world accepts me or not,
My words Will not leave me.
Because....
I am not writing this story.
This story is writing me.