The two guys I met two days ago. Two remarkably peculiar human beings. We had one of the best conversations I’ve had in a long time. The encounter inspired me to start writing again. They are both writers. Though one writes in Arabic and one in English. They’re both well-versed in topics I love to talk about.

The discussions went beyond surface-level conversations, though. They were not scared of being vulnerable, even brutally honest, when necessary, but most importantly, they felt genuine. They did not fear judgment or repercussions.

They wore their suffering not as a badge of honor nor of shame, but as an inescapable truth that simply exists in the universe.

In the tiny hotel room, we went around sharing samples of our writing. They spoke of despair and anxiety. Meditations on masks and self-worth. Musings on angst and love. Their writing not only resonated. It felt eerily familiar. It felt like passages that I had written in a past life and had long forgotten. The words didn’t merely elicit an emotional response, they amplified my very own feelings.

My therapist told me that I wield empathy as a weapon to self-sabotage. I am always longing to take other people’s pain as my own. Yet this… this felt different. It felt like we were all carrying this alarmingly heavy baggage together. We were delicately repairing a broken vase that would never be whole.

The encounter was brief. A fleeting moment in an ocean of solitude. I’ve known them for less than two full days. Our conversations were short but fulfilling. Knowing that they exist does not by any means lower the amount of suffering that the world spits out; it lowers the density.

Today, I’m not just inspired to journal but to publish. I’m not just inspired to write but to live. To learn. To create. To meet. To know the people who collectively share my suffering.