Yesterday was December 1. There was a heaviness in me that I could not fully name. It was neither sadness nor anger. It felt as if my mind wanted to say something but could not finish its own sentence.

Inside that heaviness, I forced myself to think. For some time I had been aware of a simple truth: I am a philosophy writer who has never sold a single book.

Accepting this brings both a strange peace and a strange pain. It is not easy for a person to look at themselves and realize that, despite all their effort, something is still missing. But yesterday, as I walked around that missing piece, something became clear.

I should have been a novelist. I should have created characters, stepped into them, traveled with their sorrows and their hopes. This was not something I understood for the first time yesterday. I had made that decision years ago. But yesterday was the first time the full weight of that decision settled into place inside me.

In my previous life I had a respected and successful profession. People looked at that identity and assumed everything was in order. But I had been standing at the door of another inner calling for a long time. The urge to meet new characters slowly pushed me out of the narrow space I was living in.

So I left that profession while I was still at the peak of it. I left my country. I came to another land to work as a laborer. Everyone who heard this was shocked; some refused to believe it. To them it was one of the greatest acts of madness a person could choose.

For me, it was the revolution my story needed.

Here, where I live now, I meet people from all over the world. Every nation, every language, every destiny. I build friendships especially with those who come from the narrow, unseen corners of society. They speak about their lives, and even though I do not take notes, everything gathers inside me.

But this is where fate played its hand.

In my homeland, the things I had entrusted to others were betrayed. People I trusted old friends, my circle, even my own family revealed darker faces. Suddenly my order collapsed. My future darkened. My finances crumbled. Every ground I trusted was pulled from beneath my feet.

My body could not carry the weight of it either. In recent years even the smallest stress, the tiniest fork in the road, dragged me into hospital rooms for days. Sometimes even walking felt heavy for my body.

During those moments I thought endlessly:

Is this path I chose trying to destroy me?

But yesterday something struck me with clarity.

No. This path is not killing me. It is fulfilling its purpose.

I set out to study characters. To observe them, to understand them from a distance. But the game of life pulled me inside. I became the very man of the things I once wanted to write.

I did not struggle to become a character; life itself turned me into one.

As I carried this thought, a sentence from years ago echoed in my mind words from a girl I once loved. Poetry is the gift of the poor, she had said.

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