I Don’t Understand the World by Talking. I Only Understand It by Writing.

I don’t understand certain things by talking.

I only understand them by writing.

Realizing this took a long time within the exhausting labyrinths of my own mind. In the impatient, frantic days of my early twenties, I tried to figure out the world by making noise, by explaining – by essentially drowning in the clamor of my own words. Because back then, talking was a hasty form of “purging” that came long before understanding.

This is why I used to bare too much of my soul to people I barely knew, or didn’t know at all. Within that uncontrolled speed that I mistook for intimacy, I was actually running away from the noise of my own voice. Today, however, from a much calmer place, I understand: Not every thought wants to be spoken immediately. Some thoughts require a deep silence, time, distance, and a bit of conscious solitude before they can be born.

The Transition from Speaking to Writing: Waiting for Thought

In my story, writing steps in exactly at the boundary where that noise ends. The sense-making process that I once tried to force through the chaotic speed of speech, I now do through the patient silence of the keyboard or paper.

The vital difference between them is this: When speaking, I had to frantically chase the thought; when writing, I can calmly wait for it to mature.

Writing, for me, is neither a form of production nor a result to be applauded. The sacred moment when I feel I truly understand something (a feeling, a concept, or a person) only happens when I pour it into words and bind it to text.

I read because I want to write. I research because I want to write. I learn because I want to write. But in truth, it all converges on a single common denominator: Understanding.

The scattered, wandering thoughts crashing into each other in my mind do not settle until they are written down. Sometimes, I only realize what I am truly thinking or feeling when those words materialize on the screen, to my own surprise. As I build sentences, the fog lifts, ideas clarify, and the hidden connections within life become visible.

And when the essay is finished, the roaring crowd in my mind finally goes quiet. When I don’t write, the experiences, the broken hearts, the glowing joys seem to hover in the air; it feels as though they have nothing to hold onto.

The Betrayal of Memory and the Photograph of Words

This is why I compare writing to taking a photograph that freezes time. When you photograph a moment, you don’t just capture the image; you freeze the emotional sediment that the frame leaves within you.

Because there is a brutal truth: Memory is never a reliable witness.

As time passes, we don’t remember what we lived through exactly as it happened. Our mind fills in the blanks according to its own whims; it magnifies certain pains and erases certain joys. Sometimes it adds unlived regrets to the past, and sometimes it pushes the realest moments to the very background just to keep us from hurting. Then, the human mind builds brand-new, comfortable stories upon these illusions, and after a while, it begins to believe its own fiction.

Writing is a rebellion against this sweet betrayal of memory. It is recording that moment, with that exact emotion.

Inspiration is Just a Byproduct of Paying Attention

People sometimes talk to me about inspiration. For me, inspiration is not a mystical gift waiting to descend from the heavens. Everything begins with a tiny thing that catches my mind, something that disturbs me. A half-sentence overheard on the street, a movie scene, a momentary shadow on someone’s face… Something opens a door in my mind, and the thought slips through that gap. If we are going to call this inspiration, then yes, it exists. But it is not a luxury you sit around and wait for; it is the most natural byproduct of paying attention to life, the city, and people.

When I look at the work discipline of great novelists, I always see this fascinating cycle. First, they blend into the chaotic midst of the world. They observe on crowded streets, listen to people, collect small details the sound of a tailor’s scissors, the way an elderly person sits on a bench. Then, they retreat to their own quiet rooms. And they filter all those scattered, meaningless pieces into a timeless story.

This has always been mesmerizing to me. Because writing is the art of extracting a jewel of meaning out of the raw, uncarved mass of lived life.

I think this is how I understand the world, people, and most importantly, myself best.

By writing.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.