The Weight of a Word

The empty page waits, unblinking, unshaken, a void that does not care whether I fill it or let it swallow me whole. Hesitation lingers, a whisper curling at the edges, soft at first, then sharper— What if it’s already been said? What if it’s not enough? What if my voice dissolves before it even reaches the air? Originality is a tightrope, a step into nothing, where the only certainty is the trembling of my own weight. The ground below is blank— or maybe it never existed at all. But in that emptiness, something shifts— a flicker, a pulse, not of light, but of something older, deeper, something waiting beneath the silence, pressing against the skin of the page. Ink stirs in my veins. The silence is not empty. It is breath before music, a pause before the storm, a moment when the world is holding itself still, waiting to see if I will dare to speak. So, I breathe. I let the ink spill, not as proof, not as a conquest, but as an offering. Knowing that every voice is a note in the song we were always meant to sing. And if my voice vanishes, if it is swallowed by the echoes— At least I let it exist.