Every beginning sounds like silence.
Words leave the mouth, the page, the screen.
And vanish.
Still, you speak.
Not because someone is listening
But because something in you insists.
In a previous life, I helped others find theirs.
For years, I designed blogs for elected officials, candidates, and political groups. It started with layouts and design choices.
It drifted, for some, toward ghostwriting, speechwriting, shaping ideas so they could stand upright in public.
Only recently did I realize I was doing more.
For many, blogging was a chore: something you did a few months before an election, then quietly delegated, if elected, to a junior staffer.
A box to tick.
A channel to fill.
Soulless marketing.
But some took it seriously. Very seriously.
And without exception, they did better.
As candidates.
As officials.
As humans in the office.
For them, writing was not marketing.
It was a relationship.
A slow, ongoing conversation with the people they represented. A way to clarify positions, test ideas, and document thinking while it was still in motion.
Not a monologue, but an act of accountability.
One of them was Pierre-Yves Le Borgn'.
I helped him launch his blog while he was campaigning to become a Member of Parliament. He is still blogging to this day.
I was genuinely sad when he lost his seat.
We didn't always agree, but I deeply respected his values, the coherence of his thinking and the firmness of his moral ground.
He was the kind of official who refused shortcuts for cheap political gains. Someone who treated institutions and the constitution not as tools, but as the highest responsibilities.
We need more of that kind these days. I would happily join his team should he decide to run back for office.
There's that old saying: the shoemaker's children go barefoot.
I now blog barely at all, while regularly complaining about my lack of clarity.
About what I want to build next.
About where I'm headed.
The irony is not subtle.
So here's the thought that's been circling me for weeks: What if I become again the wor(l)dsmith I once was again?
So this is me, starting again.
Writing without a map.
Not to explain myself, but to think in public.
To shape ideas while they are still fragile.
To leave traces.
And, if a voice still exists,
it will emerge on the page;
Quietly enough for me to follow.