If No One Is Listening, What Would You Say ?
There’s something peculiar about writing when no one is there to read it. A blog that has just been created is like a house with its doors wide open—yet no visitors in sight. At first, it feels lonely. But maybe, it’s also liberating.
It means I can say anything. I can think freely, unshaped by 👀reactions.👀 But then, a thought lingers—what will I talk about at this party where no one is here yet? It’s actually a fun way to imagine things.
A Tree Falls, and No One Hears It. Does It Matter?
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There’s an old question: If a tree falls in a forest and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?
For some, it’s a philosophical exercise about perception. For others, it’s an irrelevant trick question—of course, the tree fell. Does it need validation to have existed?
But the more I think about it, the more the question itself seems unnecessary. Because the moment something is created, it already means something—to the one who made it.
As children, we never questioned whether something was worth doing. We played, we drew, we built things—not for an audience, not for validation, but because it was fun. Because we wanted to. At what point did we start measuring the worth of what we make by who sees it? When did creating become a task rather than an instinct?
Even as an artist, I struggle to remember the last time I made something purely for the joy of it—without a deadline, without an outcome in mind—simply because I wanted to.
Many artists never feel satisfied with their work. Maybe that’s part of it. The moment we start expecting something from what we create, we start seeing only its flaws. But the only way to improve is to keep going. To create, to let go of expectation, and to immerse ourselves in the process itself.
Because in the end, the tree fell. That much is certain. And maybe the real question isn’t whether anyone heard it—but whether it ever needed to be heard in the first place.
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