Asking Myself

             

                                                                          Where Stories Go When They Leave Me

Today, after publishing a new post, I caught myself staring at the quiet space beneath it, precisely at the comment box, waiting like an open window. I wondered where my words go once they leave me. Do they drift into someone’s morning coffee? Do they echo softly on another screen in another country? I write to understand myself, but sometimes I write hoping to be understood even by one unseen reader who pauses long enough to feel something too.

As I sat by the window, more questions began to bloom in my mind. I wasn’t doubting the choice of starting this blog. That felt right but I was wondering if my words truly reach hearts the way they leave mine. Being new to writing, I often ask myself whether I manage to translate emotion into language, whether someone out there can feel what I feel through the weight and softness of each line.

Sometimes, I think writing is like sending a little scroll of paper sealed in a glass bottle into the sea. Delicate and uncertain but full of hope. Each post drifts away carrying a piece of me and I never know where it might land. Perhaps someone discovers it on a quiet night and feels a small comfort, a sense of being seen. Maybe that’s the quiet magic of this space, that connection doesn’t have to be loud to be real. It begins silently, between words and pauses and grows whenever someone decides to answer back.

So if you ever find one of my bottles washed up on your shore, don’t leave it sealed. Open it, read it and tell me what you felt. Maybe a few words, maybe a whole story. It doesn’t matter how small. Your thoughts are what make this space alive. They remind me that writing isn’t a monologue but a quiet conversation between hearts learning to listen to each other.

Continue reading the Journal:
•Journal — First Page
• The Space Between Then and Now
• Chapter I — Birth of Strength
• Sehnsucht
• Mom, You're Boring
• Why Silence?