Before We Begin

Whenever you fully express an idea, a doubt immediately appears within it. Maybe its opposite was closer to the truth. Maybe both are true. Maybe what we call “truth” is the tension between the two.

Writing is that kind of place for me. Not a fixed position — but a space where thought moves, sometimes stumbles, sometimes contradicts itself. I know that what I write today may feel incomplete or even wrong tomorrow. That does not stop me. On the contrary, it feels like the only honest place to begin.

Because certainty is often where thought comes to an end.

Language works in a similar way. Every language cuts the world differently — you begin to notice that some things can only be understood through a particular language. Learning a new language is not just memorizing words; it is learning to inhabit a new way of seeing. And the more ways of seeing you discover, the more layers of the world reveal themselves — but the harder it becomes to know exactly where you stand.

Loss does something similar. When a place or a period we believed was permanent disappears, our points of reference begin to fall apart. We partly understand who we are through where we stand. When that ground shifts, we have to find ourselves again. Sometimes this is destructive. Sometimes — much more slowly — it becomes an opening.

Uncertainty is not easily accepted. People are expected to have clear definitions, consistent stories, and completed identities. But some people are truly undefined — not because they are incomplete, but because they cannot be contained within a single thing.

Transitions, unfinished questions, periods that have not yet come to a close — these are also parts of an identity.

This is not a declaration of arrival. This blog is not the record of a fixed position, but of movement. It will contain poetry, essays, and sometimes simply the raw state of thought. Identity, language, loss, transformation. I do not know where it will lead.

Some ruptures do not define a person's life on their own. But they change the way they see. They remind us that the places, periods, and identities we believed were permanent were never as permanent as we imagined.

February 6 changed the geography of my childhood. I do not write about it as a headline — I write about it as a rupture. As a reminder that the places we believe will always remain can disappear. It did not define me; but it rearranged something within me.

If I describe the present moment without judging it: my life is still taking shape. My ambitions, my directions, and the meaning I give myself are still changing. My identity still resists being reduced to a single word.

I cannot place myself inside a definitive description. Because there is still a part of me that changes, learns, and continues to become.

This blog is not a declaration of arrival. It is a record of movement.

If there is a pattern in my story, it is this: I do not stop searching. I do not stop writing. I do not stop learning new languages — both in the literal sense and the inner one.

Like most people, I am a story that has not yet found its ending.

Perhaps a little more undefined.

For now, that is enough.