Hive.blog is a bit like a diary for me. If I write here, I feel like no one will ask questions, no one will ask for answers. I can remain as I am. That is why I am still sitting here writing, although I don't know what exactly to write today. I just know that there is a lot of stuff stuck inside.
For a long time, I have realized that I am not talking to myself properly. Everything seems fine from the outside. I do my daily work, talk to people, and sometimes smile. But there is a pressure built up somewhere inside. That pressure has no name. When someone asks, I cannot say what the problem is. I just say—“Nothing.” But the truth is, there is a lot hidden inside that “nothing.”
I could not easily express myself since I was a child. Whenever I tried to put what was on my mind into words, it somehow got stuck. So it seemed easy to keep quiet. But even if you were silent, the feelings wouldn't stop. They kept accumulating—in your head, in your chest, in your breath. Eventually, those accumulated feelings became so heavy that it was hard to carry yourself.
Writing came to my life from this place. Very slowly, very silently. Without making any big decisions, without setting any goals. I just felt that maybe writing would make me feel a little lighter. In the beginning, I didn't think about whether I was writing well or not. Not even about who would read it. I would just write for myself. Sometimes two lines, sometimes half a page. Many times when I read it the next day, I wouldn't understand what I had written. Still, I would keep them. Because those writings were my proof—I was still feeling them.
Even before writing, I had some places to live on my own. As a child, I would often sit alone. I would look out the window, watch people walking on the street, and scribble on the pages of a notebook. At that time, I didn't know any of these names. I just knew that doing these things calms my mind. No one taught me, yet I found these places on my own.
But as I grew older, everything started to change. Rules, responsibilities, fears—all of them came together from all around me. What would happen if I made a mistake, what would happen if I didn't do it right, what would people think—these questions started swirling around in my head. Then, the things I loved also started to slowly drift away. The very things that once gave me peace sometimes started to scare me.
At some point, I realized that I wasn't as fearless as I used to be. If I did what I liked to do before, now I feel like—will everything be okay? If I go deeper, will I be able to handle myself? Out of that fear, I learned to let go of many things. I let go of some of my own free will, some of my own free will. But with each let go, an emptiness formed inside me that I couldn't show to anyone.
Writing returned to this emptiness. But this time, writing was no longer just a hobby. It became a necessity. I wrote to talk to myself. I wrote to understand—what I was really feeling. Many times, as I write, I realize that I am tired, that I am afraid, that I am in pain.
Not all writing is beautiful. Many writings are very messy, very heavy. Yet they are necessary. Because I have learned—not all feelings need to be organized. Some feelings just need to be true.
Still, sometimes I am afraid.
I think—what if one day I can no longer write?
What if this refuge is also lost?
This thought scares me, but it does not completely break me. Because now I know that writing is not my only identity. It is my hope, my refuge—but I am not only that. Maybe one day silence will come in place of words. Maybe then I will just sit, look around, listen to my own breathing.
And if I can hold myself together a little—then that is also a lot.
