We live as if time were an endless river. But sooner or later, we are all reminded of the truth we prefer to postpone: we are finite. Each breath is one less breath, each day lived is a step towards the last. Finiteness is not a punishment — it is the framework that gives meaning to life. It is what makes gestures urgent, affections valuable and memory… sacred.
This is where writing comes in. The written word is an act of resistance against oblivion. It is what allows us to exist beyond the time of the body. When everything falls silent, the voice is silenced and the face fades, what we write remains. Writing is the most intimate trace that the soul can leave to the world.
To write is to face finitude with courage. It is to commit to paper a piece of who we are, what we feel, what we have loved and lost. It is to say to the world: “I was here”. Even if the body disappears, the word remains — like a dim light in a corridor of shadows.
In a world that moves faster and faster, where everything is ephemeral, writing is an act of love and permanence. It doesn't matter if the text is read by many or by no one. The simple act of writing is, in itself, a form of eternity.
Finiteness is certain. But writing… writing can be eternal.
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