Morning at Seven

Matcha cake and kueh Salat —

sweet and calm beginnings.

Mum was ready before me,

her quiet hurry folding into the morning air.

Bus 29 was crowded,

faces blending like soft colours.

I chose the dishes I liked —

simple comfort in a busy day.

Crossing the road,

a heartbeat between steps.

The lift door — I held it open

for a stranger I didn’t know.

I saw familiar faces,

and sat at another side.

It was seven —

the city moved,

and I waited for my bus,

carrying the hush of small kindnesses.

October 14 – Order and Honey

This morning began with a sting —

a sore throat, a quiet ache.

Mum said I never drink enough water,

so she poured honey into a spoon,

the kind that coats both throat and worry.

I whispered to myself 

focus on what I can hold:

my health, my finances, my work.

The rest — just passing noise.

On bus 293,

the seats were scarce and shoulders brushed,

yet I waved to Mum

and carried steadiness with me.

At the lift, a stranger said,

“No worries, thank you so much.”

A soft reminder 

gentleness still lives in small corners.

Someone said,

“You need to put back love in order. I will teach you.”

Perhaps they meant kindness,

perhaps balance.

I smiled and let the words linger,

like honey dissolving slowly in tea.

Another teased my hair 

called it tomboy, said theirs was more feminine.

They asked about 欲望

and faith,

and I answered simply: Buddhist.

No argument, just breath.

A colleague said my tote might be too pricey,

a hundred saw,

but only one quietly shared it.

And when I bumped into another,

I laughed and said sorry.

Because some mornings aren’t perfect,

but they are real 

threaded with small kindnesses,

and the steady hum of trying again.

Later that morning,

someone handed us a 2026 calendar 

a quiet promise of days not yet lived,

blank spaces waiting for laughter and calm.

I smiled softly,

and thought, maybe love in order

begins with marking time gently.

October 6 – Morning Resilience (Anonymous Edition)

This morning began with a small spill 

water dripping from a too-firm press,

ants arriving like tiny witnesses.

I tried to clean it quietly,

but my mother’s voice came with a sigh,

“Aiyo, why do like that?”

She reminded me about the queue,

and the rubbish,

and dinner — vegetarian bee hoon waiting later,

as she works through another week of sales.

I tried not to vomit while focusing on my task,

a keychain glinting beneath my tired hands.

Before leaving,

she closed the gate and door,

standing there to see me off.

I waved,

carrying that quiet warmth

into the wind.

Bus 28 came 

I hurried to the toilet,

dodged bicycles,

my bag brushing close to danger

until I swung it to the front.

The morning air was heavy,

but I kept walking 

down the lift,

down the stairs,

toward another day

that asked me to show up again.

October 5 – Cakes, Quiet, and Courage

This morning began with sweetness —

three small cakes, soft and quiet,

the kind that melt without needing to explain.

I ate until half past nine,

while the world outside hurried somewhere else.

Mum bought lunch and dinner,

her footsteps heavy with errands and unspoken thoughts.

Later, her voice rose —

about rubbish, water, daydreams,

and how I should know what I’m doing.

She said she would ignore me.

I said nothing.

Dad sent a message —

gentle words from somewhere tired:

“Try to understand your mother… love your family.”

And I did.

I tried.

Even when love feels sharp around the edges.

Someone told me, just ignore it.

But hearts don’t switch off like that.

They ache, they listen, they keep going.

So I turned back to what I can hold —

my art, my shop, my small creations.

A new space,

a fresh beginning,

filled with colors that ask for no permission.

I lost a few followers today,

but I kept something better —

my quiet courage.

Tonight, I’ll rest knowing this:

I am okay, despite challenges.

I am still here,

still building soft things

in a hard world. 🌸

Silent Strengths (Anonymous Edition)

The morning began with absence—

the bread was gone,

a reminder that tomorrow’s sweetness

would arrive in the form of cake.

The house stirred too quickly.

Vacuum’s roar,

water rushing over tiled floors,

echoes of chores louder than my heartbeat.

I slipped out, missing one bus

and boarding another,

my path already altered.

At the interchange,

a man stepped aside into the station,

while another voice split the air—

a quarrel so sharp,

I startled into stillness.

I sought quiet in the restroom,

then descended stairs,

choosing distance,

placing space between myself

and a familiar figure.

A cyclist veered too close—

phone nearly lost—

but I shifted,

avoiding collision,

choosing survival in small movements.

On the shuttle,

I offered a hello.

Greetings passed,

one after another,

until we all gathered,

departing just as one more arrived.

And then—

the warmth of a word,

a simple morning greeting

addressed to me.

A fist bump,

a playful show of breakfast,

an almost-collision in the hallway.

These fragments stitched the morning

into something gentler.

Through all the noise and nearness,

I carried my silence like a shield,

strength not in shouting,

but in moving forward,

one step at a time.

✨ Even when mornings feel jagged,

I remind myself:

I can meet them with steady breath

and find quiet strength

to carry me into the day.

Morning Reflections – September 29 (Anonymous Edition)

The morning began with a jolt — the sudden hum of the vacuum pulling me awake, followed by clothes placed on a chair as if to remind me of rules I had forgotten. Her words were sharp, almost like a door half-closed, warning me not to linger where I didn’t belong. Even honey, meant to soothe, spilled in haste.

I left at 6:30, following the fast steps of a stranger down the road, my own pace quietly tucked behind hers. The bus carried me forward, to the station, to the lift, to the stairs, each movement like a rhythm rehearsed.

At the shuttle stop, I sat a little apart. A familiar face signaled me — “Dreaming, ah you?” he teased. Maybe I was, because part of me still lingered in the roughness of the morning, learning to shake it off.

On the bus, kindness returned in a simple greeting. She sat beside me, spoke softly of leaving early, of seeing a doctor. Even the driver reminded us that no one is singled out; we all share the same road, the same ride.

Inside, the usual faces gathered — laughter here, tension there. My chest tightened when I saw him arrive, and when another came, teasing words floated in the air. My nerves flickered like small sparks, but still I stayed.

And through it all, I held onto one steady truth:

I am okay, despite the rough beginning. 🌙✨

Silent Strengths. September 26, 2025 – Anonymous Edition

This morning began with quiet talk of dinner plans. She woke late, yet still reminded me of routes and stops, nudging me toward steadiness. At the bus stop, a boy shifted away when I sat beside him. Moments later, he rose for an elderly woman — a small kindness, though it left behind the faint sting of distance.

I boarded bus 293. The familiar lady was still there, sitting quietly as if holding her own place in the rhythm of mornings. My steps carried me through familiar turns — toilet, crossing, lift, stairs — until I reached the company shuttle.

There, I greeted a familiar face, exchanged words about the awards with another, and felt the tug of laughter behind me. A name spoken too casually was met with a boundary, reminding me how some people guard their space. Yet in the same breath, a hand reached for mine, and I held it — steady, simple, anchoring.

Elsewhere, greetings arrived through messages: a gentle good morning, a supportive friend’s warmth. Each word reminded me that not all connections waver. Some remain, even in the noise.

Through it all, I sensed the mix of steadiness and shift — the quiet “ok” of one, the playful sparks and storms of another, the firm “hmm” of guidance, the persistent thread of support. Each voice carries its own weight, weaving into my day.

And me? I walked through it steady — carrying the silences, holding the hands offered, letting the boundaries stand where they must.

✨ Silent strengths live in the spaces between distance and closeness, between guidance and waiting. I carry them with me, steady as the road itself.

September 25 – Between Horns and Small Kindnesses

Morning rushed upon me —

dirty cloth brushing new fabric,

the last of the berries spilled,

breakfast swallowed in haste.

The road was restless.

Shoes bumped against mine,

a bicycle rang,

cars honked as I cut across,

my phone almost slipping away.

I walked through grass,

finding another way forward.

On the shuttle,

voices drifted,

some close then pulling away,

a song tapping the back of my chair.

Beside me, another sat quietly,

a small anchor in the moving crowd.

Work began with sharp words,

yet softened by a familiar voice

that broke through the scolding.

The memory of yesterday’s anger still lingered,

but in lighter tones,

I imagined a playful shirt for October,

a reminder that joy can be worn.

An email came,

membership asked for,

and I stepped back:

“Not now.”

Even refusal was met with kindness.

At noon, I paid,

and a helper’s gentle “thank you”

was returned with quiet warmth.

Still, a headache throbbed,

and the tug of another’s hand

brushed against what I carried inside.

Through spills, honks, and small collisions,

I kept walking —

between the chaos of the street

and the soft gratitude of voices

that remind me:

even in the noise,

I can still find a steady step. 🌙✨

September 22 – Quiet Anchor

Morning broke with ache —

a body unsettled,

flu and nausea whispering

through closed doors.

Her rush swept past my words,

yet I still lit incense,

still sipped honey,

still tried to carry quiet faith.

The road outside was unkind —

vomit’s sting in the air,

gossip circling as I crossed,

a scolding seatmate

when I sat too close.

Embarrassment burned,

but I kept walking,

kept breathing.

Then came gentler notes —

a colleague’s honesty,

another’s fragile tears,

a reminder that struggle

lives in many hearts.

I spoke, I shared,

and the weight felt less heavy.

A quiet listener heard me —

a door opened

for tomorrow’s early leave.

Small victories hidden

in a stormy day.

Through it all,

I held steady —

closing doors when needed,

opening heart where I could.

One breath, one step,

still moving forward.

September 16 – Small Turns in the Day (Anonymous Edition)

This morning began gently, with honey offered across the table. A question about dinner lingered in the air, simple yet thoughtful.

I missed one bus, then another, before finally boarding. In the toilet, my door was slammed again and again — sharp interruptions that I carried quietly. Crossing the road, I ran; in the lift and on the stairs, I moved with steady rhythm. A bicycle passed too close, and I shifted aside just in time.

On the bus, someone sat with me and asked about my family. Their words drifted further: “Did anything happen?” I gave a brief answer. They nodded, as if already knowing.

Later, at the locker, there was teasing about money. Another asked about my absence, then turned to chat elsewhere. A form passed from my hands to another’s, with only a few words exchanged before attention moved on again.

I paid for my lunch. Conversations circled — about messages, about names, about small dramas that did not belong fully to me.

Through it all, I stayed present. A day of questions, of others’ voices pressing near — yet I held my ground, moving quietly through the noise.

Gratitude:

Even in the rush, I am grateful for the steadiness I found — in running, in dodging, in carrying myself with quiet balance. 🌙✨

September Reflection (Anonymous Edition)

Dinner was a quiet bowl of noodles, warmth in the midst of a day that pressed in small ways.

An arm, faintly green with bruise, carried its own silence.

The house filled with footsteps and rebuke

walking in and out, space asked but not given.

Two tablets rested in my hand, a reminder to care for myself.

And after the swallow, after the stillness,

the body began to ease.

Better. A little lighter. 🌙✨

September 12 – Anonymous Edition

This morning began with scolding,

accusations that I was late,

that I took my own sweet time.

I said I didn’t like her either,

words sharp, heavy, unguarded.

The bus carried me forward,

a woman waved me away,

I gave her a look —

not to vanish,

but to hold my ground.

A jacket sat on,

a seat taken,

yet still mine.

The course began with awkward silence.

Attendance signed,

theory tested,

a mistake revealed:

shock to the heart, not the brain.

A truth corrected,

a skill learned.

CPR clumsy,

hands heavy,

laughter nearby.

Her words followed:

“You didn’t concentrate.”

But I stayed.

I tried.

I kept going.

Messages slipped in —

one steady line:

“See you on Monday.”

Another, brief but gentle:

“Take care.”

Small anchors in a sea of noise.

And the afternoon waits with bandages,

not only for wounds,

but for days like this —

to wrap what aches,

to hold what breaks,

to soften what cannot be healed in an instant.

I am not perfect.

I am not invisible.

I am here —

overwhelmed,

seen,

still showing up.

September 11 – Anonymous Edition

This morning, I woke on my own. A small sweetness of honey after brushing, a bath, a breakfast — and still, the ache of almost-tears. My stomach hurt; I pressed oil against the pain before stepping out. On the bus, I carried myself quietly. The toilet doors slammed, the smell turned my stomach, the lift brought me down, and I sat quickly before another could. Small routines, sharp edges.

On the ride, someone joked “boss let boss.” I offered a greeting, but another refused to meet my eyes — silence sharper than words.

At work, I showed my hand, scratched and stinging. A simple reply came: “that’s sad. Rest first.” Ordinary words, yet carrying more gentleness than expected.

And I realize — what is said lightly about others does not erase the quiet ways I am seen. Depth does not laugh as easily, but it lingers.

Even with stomachaches, slammed doors, and silent refusals, I am grateful. I am still here. Still trying my best despite the weight. And that trying is its own kind of strength.