I believe writing is one of the rarest instruments of reflection. It slows me down, compels me to listen, and forces me to notice the truths that often slip by in silence. Around me, I see so many realities; some that can be managed, others heavy with regret. Too often, they are ignored, feared, twisted into convenience, or simply left to drift away unnoticed. Yet each of them matters. Each deserves its place in the light. Most of us carry our own perspectives, yet we keep them hidden, muted by hesitation or crushed by fear. Here, in this space, I want to resist that silence. I have spoken before, I have written before, and though I lost that rhythm for a time, I return now, trying to begin again with a steadier, more insistent voice.
I believe in resistance, and I believe in responsibility; toward myself and the society I live in. But neither can endure without steadiness of spirit. And in our world, that steadiness is fragile. Distraction waits at every corner. Sometimes it slips in quietly, almost unseen; other times it crashes down like a wave. It lives in small refusals, quiet indulgences, and in the endless pull of social media that consumes our time and hollows out our attention. And slowly, without noticing, we begin to forget ourselves. We stop becoming whole, and instead learn only to scatter fragments, shadows of what might have been complete.
I tried writing elsewhere. Substack, Medium. Medium felt too much like a marketplace, built to sell voices instead of letting them breathe. Substack was fresher, yes, but still another orbit of the same gravity I was trying to escape: social media. And neither gave me what I needed. One leaned political, the other philosophical. I wanted a space that could hold both. For me, writing was never about being read. It was always about the act itself, the shaping of thought into words, the act of remembering myself through sentences, the act of building a voice that would otherwise fade into nothing. If someone reads, so be it. If no one reads, so be it. Even if every word I write disappears into an unread archive, I will not regret it. I will have written, and that will be enough.
Everything here is personal. I try to be fair, but my words, like anyone’s, will carry the weight of what I believe. My mind leans toward the left, shaped by principles I hold close. Yet I refuse to give it blind loyalty. I will criticize it where it fails. I am not with the right either, though sometimes I find value in certain fragments of its thought. What I follow is not ideology but conscience, not the alignment but the reflection, a voice that will not be boxed in by borders drawn too neatly.
Religion too; I write from outside it. I am not a believer, and I am not a denier. I do not worship, but I do not dismiss. I am closer to agnostic than anything else: skeptical of religion’s answers, yet unwilling to close the door on mystery altogether.
I believe instead in nature, in conscience, in the stubborn power of independent thought. I admire both art and science, each in its own way a language for truth. I love poetry, cinema, and drama; everything that carries the human impulse to tell stories, to give shape to experience. And music, I believe, is the most perfect thing humanity has ever created. I revere discovery, from the smallest steps of knowledge to the farthest galaxies charted by astrophysics. I honor the genius of those who sought to change the world, even when history chose to forget them. But what I cannot admire and what I cannot respect are those who pursued change only for profit. Their legacy is not creation but possession, and that is not something I wish to remember.
I believe in the blind poet, the deaf musician, the failed revolutionist, the silent prophet, the crippled athlete, the impoverished genius and the forgotten leader. They all tried.