In a world burning under the weight of its own infernality

In a world burning under the weight of its own infernality, Empty words destroy suffering like a lost art. Those who write only for applause and hollow idols birth dead phrases, Devoid of pulse and blood, fragile facades of pure expression. True writing is an exorcism, a confrontation with the depths of the soul, Not a begging for validation, but a dance with inner shadows. When the writer is carried away by fame and fortune, They become just another floating object on the river of futile illusions. It is a lie to write for money and fame, A lie to seek the praises of literary snobbery. Authentic writing is born from necessity, from a burning urgency, Not a spectacle for crowds, but an escape from oneself. Many writers, like gladiators, spill their blood, To satisfy the modern Caesar, the hungry crowd. Circumstances and misfortunes are insignificant to the writer, They write through hunger, despair, and the slow erosion of hope. The true creator does not wait for ideal conditions, Does not seek refuge in comfort, does not complain about obstacles. Excuses are the refuge of those who lack the inner fire, Souls afraid of the weight of their own words. For the one truly called to write, there is no choice, Only necessity, for writing becomes an act of survival. I may be hungry, homeless, wet, and in debt, But if I write, that is enough, enough to give shape to silence. To write means to cast meaning onto the arid page of existence, To give form and style to the unspoken, an act as essential as breathing. It is not enough to drown the world in moth-eaten words, The world is already drowning in them, in clichés and empty talk. If you must write, let it be because you must, Because you have something original to say, something vital from within yearns for light. You do not write because you want to say something; you write because you have something to say, A final confession, a revelation cast into the eternal void.