When I write down my thoughts, they do not escape me. This

Hear the words of Comte de Lautréamont, poet of shadows and visions, who once declared: “When I write down my thoughts, they do not escape me. This action makes me remember my strength which I forget at all times. I educate myself proportionately to my captured thought. I aim only to distinguish the contradiction between my mind and nothingness.” These words, drenched in intensity, remind us that thought is fleeting as smoke, but writing binds it like iron. Through this act, man anchors his soul, remembers his forgotten strength, and discovers the eternal battle between mind and nothingness.

The origin of this saying is found in the strange and storm-filled writings of Lautréamont, born Isidore Ducasse in the 19th century. His masterpiece, Les Chants de Maldoror, is a work of dark grandeur, wrestling with chaos, rebellion, and the abyss. In his struggle to set thought to paper, he recognized the act of writing as a weapon against dissolution. By inscribing his thoughts, he saved them from vanishing into the void, and in so doing, preserved a part of himself from the silence of nothingness. Writing was not for him mere expression—it was resistance, survival, and self-education.

In his words we see a universal law: the mind is a restless sea, waves rising and crashing, easily forgotten. But when one writes, the waves are captured, and the sea begins to shape itself into order. Think of Marcus Aurelius, emperor and philosopher, who in his Meditations wrote down his reflections not for others, but to remind himself of his strength and duty. His writings, like Lautréamont’s, were a shield against forgetting, a way to preserve the inner flame against the cold of nothingness.

Lautréamont also speaks of a contradiction: the mind, restless, creative, luminous, yet fragile; and nothingness, vast, silent, devouring. To write is to carve words upon the face of the void, to declare, “I was here, I thought, I resisted.” Many who came before him knew this battle. The scribes of ancient Egypt inscribed prayers upon tomb walls to defy oblivion. Monks of the Middle Ages copied texts so that wisdom would not be lost in the dark. Each word written was a victory against the erasure of time.

But there is more: in writing, one not only remembers, but also educates oneself. Each captured thought becomes a mirror in which the mind beholds itself. Ideas grow stronger by being named; convictions grow clearer by being shaped. A thought unwritten is a shadow; a thought written becomes a flame. Lautréamont knew that through this act, the soul grows in proportion to what it dares to articulate. Writing is not merely recording—it is forging the self.

The lesson for us is clear: do not let your thoughts drift like leaves on the wind. Catch them. Write them. For in the act of writing you will rediscover your hidden strength, and you will teach yourself who you are. Do not think of writing as a burden or an art reserved for poets; think of it as the most human act of resistance against forgetting, confusion, and despair. When the mind is clouded, let the pen carve clarity. When nothingness presses close, let the word be your light.

Practical action follows: keep a journal, however humble. When thoughts rise, seize them before they vanish. When doubts overwhelm you, write them, and in writing, confront them. In time, you will see patterns, lessons, strengths you did not know you possessed. This habit, ancient and simple, is the rope that anchors you to meaning in a sea of forgetting.

Thus, O seeker, remember Lautréamont’s cry: to write is to fight. It is to stand against the void, to declare your existence, to preserve your strength. In your words lies your resistance to nothingness, your remembrance of power, and your education in truth. Do not let your mind be swallowed by silence—give it form, and in that form, discover who you truly are. For this is not only poetry, but the very art of survival.