Before the Words Grow Old

There are things I have been meaning to say for years.

Not extraordinary things. Just little sentences that keep appearing at inconvenient hours. A thank you that arrived too late. An apology that never found its courage. A conversation I keep rehearsing with people who have already forgotten it happened.

I used to think words became less important when they remained unspoken. I was wrong. Some words grow heavier with time. They settle somewhere behind the ribs, becoming part of the person who carries them.

I wonder how many people are walking around with entire conversations inside them. How many smiles are covering sentences that never found a listener. How many beautiful thoughts have disappeared simply because nobody knew they were waiting to be shared.

Perhaps writing is my way of refusing to let every feeling become a forgotten thing.

I cannot return to the moments that needed different words. I cannot ask every unanswered question again.

But tonight, I can open a notebook, place a sentence on an empty page, and let it exist without asking anyone to understand it.

For once, that is enough for the page.