The Silent Ink...

 

Dear Readers,

I sat at my desk, staring at the blank page. The cursor blinked at me, waiting for something, anything, to appear. But there was nothing. The words that had once flowed so easily now felt trapped inside, buried beneath the weight of everything I had been through.

I had always believed in the power of writing. It had been my refuge, my voice when the world felt too loud, my outlet when the pain was too much to hold. But now? Now, the words felt hollow, empty, like they were mocking me.

"What's the point?" I muttered under my breath, pushing the pen aside. "No one cares. No one listens. Why even try anymore?"

I thought about all the moments I'd shared with my family moments that felt like a distant memory now, clouded by anger, abandonment, and the unspoken words that had severed their ties. The stories I'd once hoped to share with them now seemed meaningless, erased by a cruel twist of fate.

The rejection, the isolation it all felt too heavy to carry. It wasn’t just the pain of my family’s absence that gnawed at me; it was the feeling that no one, not even my words, could reach the people who needed to hear them most. No matter how much I poured my soul into my writing, it was as if the world was indifferent to my existence.

I glanced at the pile of unfinished stories, each one a piece of me that had never quite found its way out. And yet, here I was, still sitting in front of an empty page, wondering if anyone would care, if anyone would listen.

In the silence of the room, the thought crossed my mind: Maybe it’s time to stop. To close the notebook, put the pen down, and walk away. Maybe my words would never matter. Maybe, in the end, nothing I said would ever reach the people who should hear it.

The doubt settled in like a heavy fog, and I thought, for a moment, that perhaps giving up would be easier. At least then, I wouldn’t have to face the pain of never being heard. The ache in my chest tightened, and the thought of just letting go, of fading into the background, felt almost comforting.

But then, in the quiet, a memory surfaced a small, forgotten moment from my past, when my words had made a difference. A story shared a poem that resonated with someone, a moment when I had seen someone’s eyes light up because they understood what I was trying to say. It was a brief flash, a fleeting memory, but it was enough to make me pause.

Maybe I do matter, I thought, my hand lingering on the pen once more. Maybe there’s still something worth fighting for, even if it’s just my own story.

With a deep breath, I picked up the pen again, not sure where it would lead, but knowing I couldn’t abandon it just yet.

And so, the ink flowed, though it was slow and hesitant. One word at a time. Till I feel again whether I should give up on life….

Jacob M