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.