Silence Between Frames

There was a time when I stopped.

Not because I ran out of ideas — but because the noise around creation became louder than creation itself.

Between 2021 and 2025, I barely wrote. I barely shot. Life took another shape — different, necessary, disorienting. I found myself working in worlds that were close to cinema but not quite cinema. The rhythm changed. The urgency faded. The silence grew.

At first, I fought it. I told myself I was wasting time, that I should be doing more, that I was falling behind. But silence has its own way of teaching you things. It strips you down to what truly matters. It reminds you that not every frame needs to be filled, not every season needs to produce something visible.

There’s a strange kind of growth that happens when you stop creating. The eye keeps observing, but quietly. The mind keeps writing, but off the record. The artist in you doesn’t die — he goes underground, reconfiguring, waiting for a new language to emerge.

During those years, I learned to see again. Not through the camera, but through stillness. Through the pauses, the everyday gestures, the invisible moments that don’t make it to the screen but shape the way you look at it.

Now, returning to writing feels like returning to a long-forgotten rhythm. The words come slower, but deeper. The ideas have more air around them. The need to “produce” has turned into the need to “mean.”

If there’s one thing the silence taught me, it’s that creativity is not a straight line — it’s a heartbeat. Sometimes it races, sometimes it rests. What matters is to stay connected to it, even when it feels distant.

So here I am again, between frames. Listening. Writing. Ready to begin a new chapter — quietly, but fully awake.

⸻