I offer my words

Yet another reflective piece about writing, but I am asking a question, that only you know how to answer.

Some days, the words come in a flood, filling my fingers and spilling onto the page. Other days, even the simplest ones seem distant, slipping away before I can catch them. Perhaps it’s because I translate everything in my mind before writing. English doesn’t come naturally. Every sentence requires effort, a careful balancing of thought and feeling. It would be easier to write in my own language, but that doesn’t feel right. Somehow, the words lose something essential when they aren’t shaped in English. They feel foreign, detached, as if they no longer belong to me.

Still, when the words come, I gather them carefully and offer them to you. To read. To swallow. To make yours, if you wish.

I don’t judge their worth. That isn’t my task. I’m only here to listen, to catch them as they fall, and to offer them without expectation. There’s something sacred in that process, something that asks me to trust the voice that speaks, even when it feels fragile.

Earlier today, I read the word glimmer and, without warning, a poem fell out of my fingers. Yet the word remember, so simple, felt just out of reach. It’s strange how some words find me while others remain distant. I don’t force them. I wait. And when they come, I let them shape what needs to be said.

For months now, I have been writing up a storm. It wasn’t something I planned. It simply happened, like a river carving new paths through familiar landscapes. Poetry, reflections, scattered thoughts… I let them flow because I know the silence always follows. And when it does, I have learned not to fight it. Silence is not the enemy. It is part of the rhythm, a pause before the next wave begins. For now, the voices are here, and I am listening.

I haven’t written much poetry on the blog this year. Most of it has found its way to Threads, appearing daily like whispered offerings. Should I crosspost more often? I don’t know. Threads feels intimate, fleeting, like speaking into a quiet room where only a few listen.

Perhaps more of those words belong here too. Perhaps they need a place where they can linger longer, where they won’t be carried away by the endless scroll of a timeline. Like me, maybe they just want to be heard before the silence comes again.