By Dr. Adnan Bozan

There is a moment in which words are not born—but buried. A moment when silence becomes fuller than all the languages of the earth, and when whiteness grows more eloquent than poems. In that moment, I sat with my pen, and between us lay a paper listening to the clouds, waiting for a storm to pour down not from the sky, but from my heart.

I was not searching for words to be written, but for silence to be understood… a silence that writes me as no one ever has, that rearranges my fractures like a widow organizing the remnants of photographs on the table of memories. Every letter in this moment is not the product of a structured mind, but the bleeding of a heart that no longer trusts anyone—not even itself.

Silence writes—yes, it writes—but not with words. It writes with the tremble that precedes weeping, the shiver that follows memory, and the fear that sneaks in at the edge of night, when phones are off, doors are shut, and the soul remains naked before itself.

Silence writes not because speech is impotent, but because pain runs deeper than narration. It writes when you're betrayed by those closest to you, and have no escape but to hide inside a poem no one else knows. It writes when you remember those who left without farewell—those who departed but forgot to take their souls with them, leaving them suspended in your smallest details.

As for the ink… ink does not write; it weeps. It weeps in a voice unheard, but seen, and felt, and understood. Every drop of ink on the paper is a tear that was never allowed to fall from the eye—so it escaped from the heart to the pen, from the pen to the page, and from the page to a reader who knows nothing, yet feels everything.

Ink weeps because silence trusts it. Because the pen alone never asks, “Why?”, never demands you explain your disappointments, never requires you to be strong while you're breaking, or joyful while you're shattering. Ink weeps because you no longer do—so it chose to weep for you.

There, on the edge of the page, my sighs pile like scattered ashes, creeping silently like a widow staring at the sea, awaiting the return of someone she knows will never come back. Words do not arrange themselves; they fall like snow upon an open grave, trying to cover a pain that cannot be buried.

I write not because I have something to say, but because my silence roars, expands, and grows larger than my chest. I write because inside me lies a devastated city, and I need to sketch it onto paper—not to rebuild it, but to mourn it, as one mourns ruins.

What does it mean to live between the lines? To love without being seen? To embrace in your imagination someone you never dared to touch? To whisper “I miss you” every night to a name you have no right to call? Only the ink knows. Only it bears. Only it records this quiet madness never shown to anyone.

Silence writes because the world does not hear. And ink weeps because the heart is tired of speaking. And between the two—me… a passerby in a long sentence, unaware of its end, yet knowing that every new beginning starts with a tear, and every true ending is written in silence.

And thus I became:
Silence that writes, and ink that weeps.
Paper became my companion, my shadow, my refuge.
Writing became my only ritual, when there is no escape from solitude, no refuge from longing.
Every text I write is a mirror I stare into—not to adorn myself, but to remember that I was once there, in a moment of pain,
And that I am still here… writing, with a silence that bleeds, and with ink that weeps.