The One Who Writes

I’m forty years old.
Most likely somewhere around the middle of my life.
And as I look back—and forward—I find myself quietly wondering:
What happened to the world?

Everything feels rushed. Loud.
We talk a lot, but say very little.
We send messages, delete them, like things we barely look at.
We scroll, swipe, type.
But almost nothing truly touches us anymore.

Some time ago, I received a handwritten letter.
A real one. Ink. Paper. An envelope.
The words inside weren’t extraordinary—
but the gesture was.

Someone had taken time.
For me.
Not for likes. Not for reach.
But simply—to write.

And in that moment, I realized how deeply I had missed that.

Not attention.
Not entertainment.
But genuine closeness.

This project is my attempt to pass on that feeling.
A letter that doesn’t try to sell.
A letter that doesn’t ask for a reply.
A letter that simply exists.

Because every human being knows this feeling:
The longing to be truly seen.
Not as a follower.
Not as a target audience.
But as a person.

Maybe my letter arrives on a quiet day.
Maybe you leave it unopened at first.
But if you eventually read it—
and feel something, even for a moment—
then it was worth sending.