In the Silence.

The Weight We Don’t Name

There’s a line early in the piece that goes; a bed that forgot how to hold you.

That was the starting point. Not just for the film, but for the feeling behind it. This project began, honestly, as an attempt to make sense of something I couldn’t name yet. A kind of stillness that wasn’t peaceful. More like an emotional echo I kept waking up inside of. The idea for In the Silence didn’t arrive all at once. It came slowly, from lived experience. From noticing patterns in myself, in the spaces around me, in how we carry ourselves when we’re not quite okay but still functioning.

I started thinking about the loop of daily life. How we wake up, work, study, write, scroll, sleep. How repetition can be both a coping mechanism and a cage. And how we often try to organize our chaos through small, manageable actions. A to-do list. A cup of tea. A clean notebook. But beneath that surface rhythm, there are deeper currents. Questions we don’t ask out loud. Emotions that don’t quite land anywhere. Memories that surface without warning. I wanted to make something about that. Something that speaks to the invisible weight many of us carry, especially in the quiet.

This project didn’t come from a place of crisis. It came from a place of realisation. A stretch of time where nothing was particularly wrong, but nothing felt quite right either. I found myself writing lines like, Notebooks whisper secrets in ink I no longer trust. The loudest cries are often silent. Empty cups crave the rain. I wrote them because I didn’t know how else to say what I was feeling. And when I looked back at those fragments, I realised they were all pointing to the same thing. The need to be witnessed, even in stillness.

Once I had a sense of the emotional space, I started building the piece. I approached the film like composing a poem in three dimensions; time, image, and sound. I wrote the voiceover carefully, word by word. It had to feel effortless but precise, like a thought that arrives fully formed. Then came the visuals. Top-down shots to suggest isolation and observation. Warm and cold light to create contrast. Everything was controlled; lighting, colour, framing, but designed to feel natural. I didn’t want it to look performed. I wanted it to look lived in. I filmed everything in my own space. My room, my desk, the corners of my life that felt honest. The process was quiet. No crew. No one directing me. Just long days of setting up, reshooting, adjusting tiny things until something felt right.

There were moments when it felt like I was making something too quiet to matter. But the more I worked on it, the more I realised, silence doesn’t mean absence. It often holds the most. I edited the voiceover and footage in parallel. Some shots stayed because of the feeling they carried, not because they were perfect. Some lines were cut not because they were weak, but because they said too much. I wanted to leave space for the viewer to breathe, to feel, or to not feel. In the Silence became a short visual loop. A meditation on emotional repetition, memory, and the kind of invisible processing we often do when no one is watching. It’s not a narrative. It’s not a statement. It’s a moment.

A mirror. And even though the film ends where it began, something feels different by the time you arrive back at the start. That was the point. Because that’s how it often works in life. You wake up. The room looks the same. The light is still cold. But somehow, you remember something.

If this film speaks to something you’ve felt but couldn’t quite name, that’s enough. That’s why I made it. And if it doesn’t, that’s okay too. Not everything needs to be understood. Some things are made to simply be witnessed.

I made something quiet and intentional. Not because I had answers, but because I wanted to spend time with the questions.

Everything Begins with a Thought

Everything begins with a thought. When you open your thoughts, you close your unknown. Nothing ends!?

Every action, every decision, every change begins in the same place: with a thought. It’s where everything starts, a flicker of an idea, a question, or a realization. Thoughts are the foundation of everything, private worlds full of endless possibilities. They’re mysterious, even to ourselves, holding potential we may never fully understand.

But the moment we express them, something changes. The moment a thought is spoken, written, or expressed, it slips from our hands and enters the world, taking on a life we can no longer fully control. It no longer belongs solely to us, it belongs to those who hear it, see it, or feel its presence. We open ourselves to interpretation, to connection, to judgment. And in doing so, we close off the infinite potential of what others might imagine about us.

This brings us to the question: “Nothing ends!?” What does it mean? When we close the door to the unknown by sharing our thoughts, is that the end? Or is it the beginning of something new? The process of opening our thoughts doesn’t erase their potential, it transforms it.

When we share an idea, it becomes part of something bigger than ourselves. It is no longer only ours, it now belongs to everyone who hears it. They take it, think about it, and sometimes change it into something we never expected. Some will give it new meaning. Others might see it in ways we never imagined. And sometimes, it grows into something completely different, something far beyond what we first thought.

An idea doesn’t end when we share it. It changes. It spreads. It becomes part of new stories, reaching places and people we may never know. In this way, nothing truly ends, it grows, it lives, and it continues.

I wrote these words on a train ride to Paris, on a cold winter day when the world outside the window was painted in muted grays and whites. I was watching the frost trace patterns on the glass, and I couldn’t help but think about how fragile and fleeting our ideas can be. As I sat there, the rhythm of the train carrying me forward, this idea began to take shape. Thoughts are the starting point of everything. When we share them, we lose their mystery, but we gain something far greater, the possibility for connection, for understanding, for growth.

Think of a moment when you shared something meaningful, a dream, a fear, or an idea. In that instant, your thought became visible. It was no longer just yours; it became part of something larger, something shared. Did it feel freeing? Did it deepen your connection with someone else? Or did it leave you wishing you had kept it to yourself?

This thought is not a conclusion, but an offering. It is an invitation to reflect on what we share, and what we keep. Hold them close, or set them free, knowing that in doing so, you’re trading one unknown for another. Perhaps the most extraordinary part of sharing a thought is not knowing where it will go or how it might return to us, changed.