"To write is to lose yourself in the endless movement of life"

To write is to surrender control and step into the current where everything is in flux. The self that sits down to shape a sentence dissolves into a wider presence: the rush of memory, the clamor of streets, the weather of moods, the whispers of others living inside language. Words become not fences but vessels, carrying the writer along with the world’s ceaseless unfolding. What is rendered on the page is not a monument, but a trace of motion, a way of keeping company with time as it changes shape.

Losing yourself here is not annihilation but permeability. The ego loosens its grip so that other voices and textures can pass through: grief with its ash-taste, joy with its quicksilver leaps, doubt with its sandpaper friction. Empathy expands as boundaries blur; a character’s breath becomes your own, a stranger’s street becomes familiar. The page turns into a porous threshold where inner weather meets the public climate, and the writer learns to listen more than to declare. Through that listening, language is freed from rigid certainty and begins to move with the contradictions that life requires.

The practice mirrors the elements it seeks: drafts rise and recede like tides, syntax lengthens to catch a slow riverbend or shortens to snap like a twig. Revision is the return of waves, sanding what is jagged into something that fits the shoreline of meaning. Truth arrives as rhythm rather than doctrine, a pulse you follow rather than a flag you plant. In this movement, the self is scattered and reassembled; what returns from the drift is a voice lighter, truer, more companionable with reality.

Such writing is a discipline of aliveness. It refuses stasis, welcomes surprise, and treats language as a living ecology. To be carried by it is to be taught, again and again, how not to harden, how to keep pace with becoming, how to be remade by what you meet.