The Weight of Names

The rain started an hour ago.

Not a storm — just a steady hush against the windows.

It doesn’t demand your attention. It just makes you notice how loud the inside of your head can be.


I write in English because it gives me space.

A language with fewer ghosts.

But some things follow you, no matter how you translate them.


Today, it’s names.


Not the ones that belong to people.

Not the ones carved into marble or muttered during arguments.

The names we give to feelings.

To states of being.


We call things love. Power. Loneliness.

As if a single word could hold the shape of something that changes every time you look at it.


Loneliness, for example.

People imagine silence. An empty room. A phone that doesn’t ring.

But real loneliness isn’t the absence of someone.

It’s the presence of an absence.

It’s something that breathes next to you even in a crowded bar. Even when someone’s hand is in yours.

It’s a quiet certainty that entire parts of you will always remain untranslated.

Or worse — that you’ve hidden them so well, no one even tries.


And power. Not the loud kind. Not the kind that barks or bleeds.

I mean the still kind.

The kind that waits. That doesn’t explain itself. That knows when to say nothing and still remain understood.

It’s not easy to earn.

It’s harder to lose.

And once you recognize it — you stop chasing any other kind.


I wonder what names women give to these things.

Not out of curiosity, but out of something quieter.

Recognition, maybe. Or respect.

When I write about a loneliness that isn’t empty but full — do they feel it in their ribs?

When I describe power without noise, do they nod?


The rain is heavier now.

Or maybe I’m just listening closer.

Some names, no matter the language, were never meant to be spoken.

Only echoed.

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