Abyss

Writing does not begin with the desire to be heard. It begins much earlier, in a space without address, where thought takes shape without an audience and without witnesses. With no promise of any reception. Silence is not what surrounds writing afterward; it is its primary condition. In a dense, almost organic silence, an inner voice discovers itself alone. From there, a true sentence may arise. That is why it never entirely belongs to those who read it.
The abyss is not a metaphysical backdrop; it is a distance. A distance between what is lived and what can be said. Between what is truly said and what can be heard. But above all between what can be heard and what is recognized. Every word cast into the world crosses this space, and the more it is charged with necessity, the more it is altered there. It never arrives intact. It arrives as a fragment… sometimes as a rumor… Misunderstanding is not a failure of transmission; it is the law of passage.
One who writes from this place does not speak to convince, nor to rally. One speaks because not speaking would be an even greater disappearance. Writing then becomes a gesture of maintenance, a way of remaining upright in the interval, without illusion as to what will be received. What resonates within oneself does not seek a faithful echo; it accepts in advance distortion, as the price of its existence outside the self. A sentence that would be perfectly accessible and understood would already be dead, because it would have renounced what made it necessary.
Misunderstanding, in this perspective, is not a humiliation but a natural consequence. Readers are not absent; they are simply elsewhere. They read from their own fissures. They recognize what can adjust to their form and let the rest fall away. What reaches them is never what was written, but what managed to survive the crossing. Thus some catch a vibration without being able to name its origin. Others hear only an indistinct noise. Most pass by, not out of indifference, but because the abyss cannot be crossed without a certain vertigo.
Silence then persists, but it changes in nature. It is no longer the silence of origin; it is the one that follows the sending. A silence populated by erroneous interpretations or partial readings… by glances that slide away or turn aside… The writer who accepts this stops waiting. One no longer writes to be met, but to remain faithful to what, within oneself, cannot bear the lie of adaptation. One knows that depth does not call for adhesion, but for isolation—not as a posture, but as a consequence.
In this space, writing amounts to speaking in a dark room without checking who is still there. Perhaps someone, somewhere, will recognize a familiar inflection, a tension they too carry without formulating it. It will never be a frontal encounter. It will be a discreet, almost clandestine crossing between two solitudes that do not name themselves. The rest of the time there will be only silence, and that silence will not be a failure. It will be proof that the text was not flattened in order to be received. Proof as well that it has preserved its density. This is not without risk… To write in this way is to accept that meaning is not shared like an object, but like a fissure. Some will fall into it for a moment. Others will look without seeing. And that is enough.