The Silent Writer: A Journey of Self-Discovery Through Words

After I entered my forties, my verbal expressions diminished while the length of my literary compositions expanded.

Ever since childhood, I have embodied a reticent disposition, particularly in the presence of unfamiliar faces. Nevertheless, a profound desire to engage with the world resides within me. I compelled my heart to draw closer to the secular realm, diligently acquiring rhetorical techniques such as hyperbole, fictionality, parallelism, and euphemism, and incorporating them seamlessly into my conversations and dialogues. For an extensive period, I reveled in ceaseless discussions. Astronomy and geography, current events and politics, culture and art, and matters of faith all fell within the purview of my discourse. My aspiration was to garner recognition and attention from the world through my eloquence, thereby leading a more resplendent and magnificent existence.

However, upon reaching the midpoint of my life and reflecting upon the path I have traversed, I came to a realization: I had become a mere jest. Excessive verbosity failed to alter the modesty of my existence or alleviate the solitude that enveloped my heart. Instead, it exacerbated my anxiety and desolation. In this cacophonous world, one’s influence and affluence dictate the magnitude of their voice. Regrettably, my voice is too feeble, and my hoarse expressions are either engulfed by the swirling dust, unheard by anyone, or perceived as ridiculous and comical performances, eliciting scorn and derision from deep within others’ hearts. I increasingly perceive this world to be more illusory than real, more perfunctory than sincere. Numerous individuals and matters are truly unworthy of investing one’s expressions and time in. Fruitless wishful thinking only serves to breed disdain and augment one’s solitude.

The world has eternally been afflicted, and each of us is a patient. Loquacity stands as one of the many complex ailments—comprising a blend of juvenile malady, void syndrome, vanity affliction, and loneliness syndrome, and more. Time and age, it seems, are the sole remedies for this malaise.

Thus, it wasn’t until my fortieth year that my taciturn nature resurfaced. I harbor no inclination for superfluous discourse, but when compelled to speak, brevity becomes my aim. The majority of words, it seems, need not be uttered, as their utterance merely invites troubles and worsens my disposition. Frequently, my mobile phone remains dormant for extended periods, and within the confines of my office, I engage in no more than ten exchanges daily. I am averse to filling my limited life space with ephemeral prattle, even as I grapple with profound solitude.

I dwell on the fringes of the world—leading a tranquil existence, tending to my vegetable garden, preparing meals, maintaining hygiene, occasionally contemplating the notion of caring for a golden retriever or Labrador, and diligently fulfilling my responsibilities without anxiety, prioritizing quality and quantity while avoiding the pursuit of accolades and remaining detached from others’ affairs. Within the confines of my narrow garret, I indulge in aimless reading—ranging from agronomy and local chronicles to maps, dictionaries, medical treatises, metaphysics, and other subjects that defy categorization. Irrespective of their literary relevance, these readings kindle my profound interest. Naturally, I employ my discerning gaze to deeply observe both individuals and phenomena. Unintentionally, I often attain profound insights into the verities of the world and the subtleties of human nature.

Amidst silence and literary perusal, a world more opulent, profound, and expansive unveils itself before me. Once again, my heart stirs with restlessness. I yearn to converse with others, to divulge my unique discoveries, to expound upon my comprehension of the world, and to articulate my perspectives and musings. However, few individuals in my vicinity evince a willingness to pause and listen, and I am disinclined to reiterate my prior experiences. Thus, after a protracted hiatus, I once again grasp pen and paper, embarking on a new form of expression—a literary journey paved with words.

At the tender age of seventeen, I published my inaugural literary work. Subsequently, I ceaselessly penned my thoughts for a decade, though few were commendable. Thereafter, I dedicated myself to running a newspaper, causing my pen—formerly devoted to prose and novels—to shift its focus toward reportage. According to the newspaper’s editor, during those extensive ten years, I appeared to be ceaselessly conversing (overseeing weekly editorial meetings that often extended for an hour or two), yet the words that truly emanated from my essence hardly amounted to more than two pages. Now, having traversed the threshold of middle age (when I turned forty, I narrowly missed qualifying for the Provincial Youth Entrepreneurship Association by a few days, thereby realizing that my youthfulness had faded), I finally discern my own frailty and aloofness. Thus, I endeavorto return to the realm of literature, to express myself through the written word, where my voice can find solace and resonance.

In this new literary endeavor, I find liberation from the constraints of time and space. Through writing, I can transcend the limitations of my immediate surroundings and connect with individuals across the world. The written word possesses a permanence that spoken words lack, allowing my thoughts and ideas to endure beyond the fleeting moment of their expression. It is through this medium that I can fully explore the depths of my introspection, share my unique experiences, and convey the nuances of my observations.

Writing offers me the opportunity to distill my thoughts and refine my expressions. I can carefully choose each word, crafting sentences and paragraphs that convey my intended meaning with precision and clarity. This deliberate process of composition allows me to communicate more effectively, ensuring that my message resonates with readers in a profound and meaningful way.

Moreover, writing grants me the luxury of time. I can pause, reflect, and revise my words until they align with my authentic voice. In conversation, one is often rushed, compelled to respond in the moment without sufficient contemplation. But in writing, I can take my time, refining my thoughts and polishing my prose until I am satisfied with the result. This deliberation grants me a sense of control and empowers me to express myself with greater depth and eloquence.

As I enter this new phase of my life, I embrace the power of the written word. I recognize that my voice may be quiet and my expressions may be few, but within the realm of literature, I can find solace and fulfillment. Through my writings, I hope to connect with kindred spirits, to inspire contemplation and reflection, and to contribute to the rich tapestry of human expression. In this journey, I embrace the beauty of brevity, allowing each carefully chosen word to carry the weight of my thoughts and experiences.

So, I write. I write to make sense of the world, to explore the depths of my own being, and to connect with others who may resonate with my words. Through writing, I find a refuge, a sanctuary where my voice can be heard and my thoughts can find expression. And even if my literary compositions have expanded in length, my aim remains the same—to bring meaning and beauty to the world through the power of the written word.

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