A Book in progress Writing a book doesn’t begin when the first page is finished. It begins much earlier, in scattered thoughts, in persistent questions, in silences that refuse to remain silent. Long before words settle on the page, there is an inner movement. A tension. An unease. Writing starts when something inside you insists on being examined, even when you don’t yet know how to name it. That is where this book truly began. For some time now, I’ve been working on a book that is not yet complete, but already very much alive within me. It grows slowly, shaped by reflection, observation, and lived experience. It is born from restlessnes, not the kind that seeks quick answers, but the kind that learns to stay with questions. This is not a book written in haste. It resists speed. Each chapter emerges as a dialogue: with myself, with the ideas that challenge me, and with the reader I imagine not as a passive observer, but as a thinking presence. The writing has been less about telling a...