1745 - Every days ....

Every day I have to write. Every day I have to say something. As if silence were a mistake. As if emptiness were a fault. I rest my hands on the keyboard and it feels as though I’m touching a wound. I speak of myself. Always of myself. Because it’s the only thing I know and the only thing that wears away. The words come, but they are not light. They are chisels. Every sentence opens a crack. Every line widens it. I’m not building a wall. I’m dismantling the façade. Writing is supposed to save. It’s supposed to bring order to chaos. Instead, it makes it visible. And what I see can no longer be ignored. The crack grows. I feel it as I breathe. It isn’t in the text. It’s beneath the text. It’s inside. I repeat the same images. I repeat the same fears. I change the words, but the voice remains the same. And the voice grows weary. Perhaps I should stop. Perhaps I should let the day remain silent. But if I don’t write, I feel as though I’m disappearing. So I write. And as I write, I realise that every line moves me a little further away. The cracks don’t ask for permission. They widen patiently. Silently. Relentlessly. Perhaps this is what writing is: looking at the fracture and calling it art. Perhaps writing does more harm than good. And yet I carry on. One word at a time. Like an engine that won’t switch off. Like a rhythm that promises no salvation. Just movement. Just repetition. Just this crack that never stops growing.