A Page A Day
I stopped writing for years, and when I finally returned, I slipped back into the habit as if no time had passed at all. Filling the page every day feels natural again, almost necessary. Now, skipping even a single day without writing a few lines feels like a small failure, a quiet loss.
Sharing my short poems on Instagram has taught me something unexpected: attention rarely follows logic. I still can’t tell whether it’s timing, length, or pure chance that determines what resonates. The algorithm remains a mystery to me, unpredictable and oddly indifferent to effort.
What matters more, though, is the community I found along the way. However small it may be, their appreciation has been a gift. They are one of the reasons I keep writing, even on days when doubt creeps in.
Another thing that surprised me was how easily I convinced a friend to start writing again, and how quickly he embraced it. He writes every day now. Each new piece he shares fills me with excitement, and I find myself deeply proud of him. Watching someone rediscover their voice reminds me why returning to mine mattered so much in the first place. Writing may begin alone, but it continues because it finds its way back to others.
