Before dawn, when the world still holds its breath, a blank page waits.
Not to be filled — but to be faced.
Some mornings, words arrive like a river in monsoon. Other days, silence stretches long and dry. Yet both are true. The page never lies; it only reflects what it’s shown.
Writing isn’t about expression. It’s about seeing — watching the mind unfold without defense or disguise. Each line reveals what lingers beneath the noise: fear, tenderness, fatigue, grace.
Over time, the act of writing becomes prayer. The pen turns into a mala; every sentence, a breath. The page asks for nothing, gives everything.
Some days it mirrors restlessness, others peace. But both come from the same Source.
And as the first light slips through the window, something inside softens — a quiet knowing that there’s nothing to fix, only to see.
The page does the rest.