Writing As If the Dead Can Hear It

Black-and-white photo of a writer seated in front of a candlelit desk, facing a window with blurred ghostly silhouettes outside.

A dimly lit writer sits at a desk with a candle, photo, and letter, facing a cracked window where faint ghostly figures watch. The atmosphere evokes grief, memory, and the unseen presence of the dead—realism steeped in mourning.

Speak as if the silence is listening.
Write as if the ones who’ve gone still linger —
not in memory, but in the shadows of your voice.

Most people write for the mourners —
for the pews, the family, the priest in black.
But not you.

You write for the unseen.
For the one whose name is being said like a summoning.
For the presence you can’t prove —
but feel.
Hovering.
Listening.

What if they were there?

In the back of the room.
Quiet.
Barefoot.
Listening to the story you dare to tell.

Would they flinch at your flattery?
Would they cry at your courage?
Would they whisper, “Finally, the truth”?

When you write as if the dead can hear it —
you stop lying.
You stop pleasing.
You start honoring.

The Writing Changes

The clichés die first.
They cannot survive the presence of someone who remembers the truth.

You tell the story no one else knew —
because they’d remember it.

You stop writing to impress.
You start writing to reach.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call you back.”
“You were strange. But you were rare. And I’m glad I knew you.”
“You always hated poems. But now, here you are — inside one.”

This is not poetry for the living.
This is confession for the dead.

It Becomes a Trace They Might Follow

What if —
just what if —
they could hear it?

Wouldn’t you want them to know:

“You mattered.”
“You left a shape in this world.”
“You are not forgotten. I am not done speaking to you.”

Even if it’s not metaphysically true —
it’s emotionally necessary.

Because those left behind want to believe:
they heard me.

So Write Like They’re Listening

Because when you do:

Every line becomes a lit candle.
Every pause — a breath between worlds.
Every image — a relic passed hand to hand in silence.

The dead may not speak —
but you can.

And when you do it honestly,
the living will feel it in their bones.

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