An early spring morning.
The refrigerator hums
in the kitchen
and sunlight streams
into the living room
while I write in a spiral notebook,
the sound of the ballpoint pen tip
scratching against the white paper.

In this moment
I realize the act of writing—
the mechanical activity
of jotting down
one word after the other,
leading to verbal connections
and accumulated sentences—
delights me and uplifts my spirit,
even if the words I write
add up to nothing.

And I will keep writing
without knowing the result,
having no expectation of success,
because I must—
because stopping is impossible,
since writing was never a choice for me—
instead, it’s an involuntary exercise
with the pen moving across paper
providing evidence of my existence.