After Lines of the Void: Making Peace with Writing, Faith and Doubt

The day I finished Lines of the Void, I felt this:

I had not completed a book.

I had only stepped over the threshold of the first text I was able to write without lying to myself.

Then I realised that this book was not really a “first book”; it was the quiet rehearsal of all the texts that would come after me.

My writing journey, my relationship with faith, my way of looking at doubt…

All of them quietly began to reshape themselves between the lines of this book.

Let this be a small bridge that tells what happened inside me after Lines of the Void, and the transformation in the triangle of writing, faith and doubt.

Lines of the Void: An attempt to bear witness to myself before becoming a writer.

In most people’s eyes, a writing journey begins with a book:

Cover, number of pages, publisher, print run, reader reviews…

For me, it was not like that.

While writing Lines of the Void, there were very few moments when I actually felt like a “writer”.

I felt more like someone who had finally managed to put the questions piling up inside onto paper.

The most radical thing this book did to me was this:

For the first time, instead of looking at myself from the outside as if I were a character, I began to bear witness to my own interior from within.

In that moment, writing stopped being, for me, “the art of crafting sentences that impress people”.

It was no longer “the skill of polishing what passes through me with conceptual ornaments” either.

Writing gradually began to mean this:

The discipline of forming sentences in which I do not lie to myself.

After Lines of the Void, when I sat down to work on the next books, the pen rested in my hand with a different weight.

Now every sentence was tested by this silent question:

“Do you really feel this, or are you writing it just because it looks good?”

That question actually became my true writing manifesto.

The distance between me and faith: childhood gods vs. adult questions

Lines of the Void is not a book written directly “about faith”.

But beneath its lines there is a very deep inner dialogue being carried out with faith.

For years I carried this division inside:

If you believe, you do not question; if you doubt, you no longer believe.

It never even occurred to me that these two could stand side by side in the same heart.

God was either complete or absent; a question was either betrayal or obedience.

Then one day, as I looked at my own inner crises, I realised this:

Long before I “struggled to believe in God”, I was struggling to believe in the meaning of life.

The void, the exhaustion of the modern human, the perception of time, the self, the mask, silence…

Behind all these themes, a question was quietly circling:

“Is this life really connected to a centre, or is it made up of moments randomly flung around?”

While writing Lines of the Void, some of my ready-made sentences about faith slipped out of my hands.

Instead, I started walking towards this state:

Faith no longer felt like a string of ready answers inside me; it felt like the rope I still refused to let go of after the questions.

Not dogma, but direction.

Not a formula, but orientation.

I began to see doubt not as an enemy, but as breath.

For most of my life, the word “doubt” was a dirty word.

As if it were a guest forbidden to enter the room of the heart.

Kept waiting at the door, watched out of the corner of the eye, but treated as someone who would ruin the whole system the moment they were let in.

With Lines of the Void this began to change.

Because most of my most sincere inner sentences started with a kind of doubt:

“What if I am understanding this wrong?”

“What if what I was taught is incomplete?”

“What if all these concepts are just walls I have built to feel safe?”

I carried these questions inside for years, but I did not dare say them out loud.

Because doubt had been coded in our minds as “falling out of faith”.

Then I realised that if my faith could be shattered by a single question, it had already been shattered long ago.

I was only covering the rubble.

Making peace with doubt was not denying God; it was giving up on mistaking my own disappointments, expectations and fears for God.

Faith and doubt are no longer two enemies fighting in my heart; they stand there like two heavy guests sharing the same kitchen.

One asks, the other keeps silent.

One tears down, the other rebuilds.

And I am trying to learn to sit at that table without making noise.

Writing became the language of faith; doubt became the pulse of the text.

One of the biggest things I realised after Lines of the Void was this:

I was no longer living my faith only in the sentences of prayer, but also in the sentences I formed while writing.

The writing journey turned into a new form of conversation with the faith within me.

The question “Am I thinking this correctly?” gave way to “Am I thinking this honestly?”

Doubt became like the heartbeat of every piece I wrote:

If there is no question at all within a paragraph, it means that somewhere in there I am deceiving myself.

That is why my philosophical texts are always two-layered:

On the surface, concepts; underneath, a much more human hesitation.

If you are a fellow reader-traveller, you may notice this when you read my texts one after another:

The same voice walks around different books wearing different faces.

In one place it searches for mercy, in another it questions modern times, in another it throws the “self” into the fire, in another it probes language, words, silence.

What they all have in common is that faith and doubt are trying to learn how to walk together.

I no longer want to separate the two.

Faith, when without questions, freezes.

Doubt, when without direction, scatters.

Writing breathes in the space between them.

The books that came after Lines of the Void: different faces of the same wound.

Every book that came after – all the texts in which I speak of mercy, the self, language, the modern human, truth, the layers of the ego, and what remains of the human being in the noise of this age – are in fact different faces of the same wound in Lines of the Void.

What I called “the void” in that first book began to take different names in the books that followed:

Mercilessness, the illusion of self, the wearing down of language, the soul swept up in the speed of modern life, the masks we consider sacred, the prayers we left unfinished…

But the source is the same: the human search for meaning.

From that point on, the writing journey was no longer just about writing books.

With each book, another curtain opened inside me:

In one, the part of me at war with God appeared; in another, the part of me disappointed in humanity; in another, the child in me who avoids facing myself.

That is why Lines of the Void is not just a “first work”; it is a starting point that became the soul-relative of those that followed.

Of course you can move on to the others without reading this book.

But know that every sentence you hear in each later book is, at one end, tied to this first crack.

From the outside, I may look to you like a domain name, a website, a project.

For me, though, it is an inner space that existed before the books.

One of the things that passed through me while writing Lines of the Void was this:

These texts should not remain only on paper; they should find a place where they can stand side by side with other writings, books and languages nourished by the same spirit.

This is part of the reason why I did not want to leave my writing journey only on the shelves of a publishing house.

My works are not just books; they are a shared home for all the texts that walk between faith and doubt, between the human and truth, between words and silence.

Every word I have written after Lines of the Void feels as if I were carrying it into another room of this house.

Some rooms are darker, some brighter, some more crowded...

But at the centre of all of them, the same question turns:

“While I am writing all this, what am I really pursuing?”

I no longer want to know anything one hundred percent.

This sentence may sound frightening at first.

Yet for me it is the expression of a great relief.

In the past I wanted everything to be “in its place”.

Clearly defined concepts, beliefs with drawn boundaries, a fixed identity, unquestioned truths, closed files…

After Lines of the Void I realised this:

In this world, I will never know anything one hundred percent.

But that does not mean I will live without believing in anything.

On the contrary, now I want to measure my faith not by knowledge but by orientation.

In every sentence, every book, every line I ask myself:

Does this bring me a little closer to truth, or am I just telling a story that makes me feel safe?

Making peace with doubt does not mean doubting everything all the time.

It means accepting that some things must remain beyond the reach of my power to question.

Seeing the helplessness of my heart, knowing the limits of my mind, and still continuing to walk.

Faith has now taken this shape in me:

A quiet trust that keeps me walking even in the moments when it is not my only lantern.

Doubt, on the other hand, is the inner overseer that keeps me from turning myself into an idol on this walk.

A voice that says, “You might be wrong,” but does not say, “So don’t set out.”

Lines of the Void has not ended; it has only changed place.

This text may look like a piece that closes a series.

Inside me, however, it expresses the exact opposite:

A threshold opening onto new books, new questions, new confrontations.

For me, Lines of the Void is not a finished book.

Even if its pages are closed, it continues to be written inside me.

Because whenever I quarrel with faith, whenever I grow tired of doubt, whenever I come close to betraying myself in my writing, a sentence from that book comes out and touches my shoulder:

“Reality lies beyond the lines, in the heart of silence; and whether or not you are a writer, you must remain loyal to that silence.”

If you have read Lines of the Void and lingered somewhere in it, know this:

The books that follow are simply different journeys that continue from the place where you stopped.

Mercy, the self, language, truth, modern times…

All of them are new circles drawn around the same void.

With this text I want to say this:

My writing journey is nothing but a long inner road on which I try to make peace with faith and doubt.

Every piece that rises from me and appears before you is another stop on this journey.

And perhaps the real hope of all these books is this:

That on your own journey you may find a silence in which you can make peace with your own faith, your own doubt, your own words.

If this alone passes from my void to you, every line I have written has reached its purpose.