There were times when I felt the urge to write something down. Not exactly writing at first—I tried to express those feelings through videos, small animations I made. I shared them on a private Instagram account with just two friends.
I think that urge came from a gap. What I was consuming didn’t reach those feelings, so I felt the need to produce something instead. It was a shift—from consuming to creating. Those videos were a beginning. Later, I wrote a poem.
While writing this, I remembered something else. When I was a kid, I used to write short stories. I also wrote rap lyrics and shared them online. I had forgotten about that.
Those videos and that poem came after a breakup. Creating something helped me pass time, but more than that, it felt like I was taking those emotions and placing them into something real—something tangible. After a while, I stopped. The urge came back from time to time, but I didn’t act on it.
Right now, I find myself in a calm and clear state of mind—the kind of state I actually want to be in. That’s why I wanted to write this.
I came to a place surrounded by greenery, near a small stream. The closer you get to the water, the more polluted it becomes. Somehow, that feels fitting.
This is also the first post on this site.
Lately, I’ve been looking at my thoughts and emotions more closely. I want to understand why I feel the way I do in certain moments. But once I start thinking, so many details appear that it becomes impossible to hold onto all of them.
That’s one of the reasons for this blog. Turning some of these thoughts into something I can return to makes me feel like I might understand myself better.
We forget. We always do. And sometimes, maybe we should.
There’s something else I’ve been thinking about.
In the end, we’re all human, but we experience life differently. We face different problems and come up with different solutions. We all think in our own ways, shaped by different conditions.
What I find interesting is this: despite all those differences, we can sometimes share the same thoughts with someone who lived years before us, under completely different circumstances.
I don’t fully know how to explain it, but it makes me feel like—at the most fundamental level—there aren’t that many different ways for a human to exist and continue living.
I want to be able to return to things. I want to create something.
I’m not really trying to reach anyone. I write for myself—and for an imaginary reader. Maybe someone who thinks in a similar way.
I want to explain myself to myself.
I want to find meaning in what I feel.
I want to understand both the good and the bad more deeply. Somehow, that makes me feel more human.
To feel what my feelings mean—to me.
As if, underneath everything, beyond expectations and pressures, a more real version of myself starts to appear.
I still want to continue anonymously. I feel like I can express myself better that way. I’m not aiming to reach a large audience anyway.
Even though I try to write from a version of myself that is free from social judgment, I realize that I haven’t really been that kind of person until now. So I find myself thinking, ‘If this ever reaches someone from my past, I would probably feel strange.’
And that makes me uncomfortable. At least for now.
I’m also starting to notice that the version of myself that has been more visible until now is quite different from the one that has been coming forward lately—the one writing this.
So I’ll share this only with people around whom I can truly feel like myself.
And for that, I’m grateful.