Your steps may be the very path someone desperately needs.

I’ve Started Writing Again. 
The first half of my life was about trying things I wanted to try. But for the life that remains, I feel a quiet urge to repay a debt I owe to the world. Life is like walking through a tunnel with no clear exit. Some walk with a bright lantern in hand. Others rely on a flickering candle, barely holding back the darkness. Only those who have walked through that darkness with such a fragile light truly understand what it feels like. There’s a saying: “If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together.” I write to be a companion to those still walking.

One day, I came across a sentence that challenged the very idea of writing. In A Mathematician’s Apology, G.H. Hardy wrote, “Exposition, criticism, appreciation… is work for second-rate minds.” (Note1) A bold statement—especially coming from someone regarded as a genius. (Note2) But there was something admirable in the honesty, in the refusal to dress up his beliefs. I don’t wish to argue against him. I only have a few words for those who might feel discouraged by his.

Even a genius doesn’t create a world alone. Every great idea stands atop the quiet foundations others have laid—some in obscurity, some in ordinary persistence. To have talent is one thing; to use it only for oneself is another. True greatness, I believe, lies not in brilliance, but in courage—the courage to take a step forward, even if it seems small or foolish, and the willingness to offer that step to someone else.

In the world of writing and literature, there’s often a quiet pressure: that only “creative” writing counts. How many have given up before they even started, pressed down by such expectations? I, too, once hesitated in the face of those voices. But I’ve come to long for writing that may lack elegance or clever turns of phrase, but is honest—writing that carries something real. To me, writing is not about how skillfully one writes, but about the attitude with which one sees and speaks.

One author helped clarify that for me: Olga Tokarczuk, winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature.(Note3) When I first read her work, I was struck by how quiet, even plain, her prose felt. No flashy expressions. Few lines that demanded to be remembered. Yet beneath her words flowed a deep current—the hours she spent reading, thinking, and observing the unseen layers of the world. What she offered wasn’t just writing, but a way of relating to the reader, to reality. I believe that is what true writing looks like.

I don’t claim to write well. I have no gift for metaphor, no gift for literary flair. But I want to share the time I’ve lived, the thoughts I’ve carried, the things I’ve endured. If that is called “second-rate,” then so be it. Somewhere, someone is still walking in the dark, holding onto a candle that might go out at any moment. I hope they keep going, even if afraid. If my words can become a hand to shield their flame, or a quiet presence beside them when they feel lost—then I ask for nothing more.

Who can call another’s life “second-rate”? When we don’t even fully understand our own.
That’s why I write, still—today.