As I near the twilight curve of life, memories glow—half ember, half flame. Once, the street would echo with laughter and clang, vessels clattering by the public tap at one a.m., tiny hands waiting in line, slick with sesame oil— the ritual to rinse away bad luck, the dawn bath, the race to light the sky before the sun could claim the first spark.
Now, the oil burns inside screens— WhatsApp greetings, pixel lamps, and faces that flicker, not quite near, not quite gone. Children and their children dream elsewhere, and my mother, in her quiet nest, still lights her lamp the old way, its glow steady, refusing to learn Wi-Fi.
I sit by the balcony’s hush, wondering— is it the spark that’s changed its hue, or have we traded the warmth of hands for the hum of notifications?
The glitter fades faster than my breath, yet somewhere deep within, a small flame endures— not dissolving, just transforming— from the crackle of fireworks to the silence of light.
My pencil rolled across the page like a dune. Golden curves, soft and endless. Then—vroom!—a streak of silver sliced through. A race car! Right in the middle of my desert!
The pencil laughed, saying Abu Dhabi loves to surprise. One moment you’re counting grains of sand, the next you’re counting laps at Yas Marina.
I drew the city’s edge— glass towers rising like mirages, a falcon gliding overhead, its wings tracing the shape of speed.
Then came a secret: there’s a hotel here where rooms overlook the Formula 1 track— and when cars race by, the windows tremble with joy.
I signed my name quickly, half afraid my pencil might take off too. The wind outside hummed low, and for once, it sounded like an engine dreaming.
✨ If your pencil could race the wind, where would it stop to rest?
✏️ Day 28 – Golden Quiet (Brunei, Bandar Seri Begawan)
My pencil woke up whispering today— soft, respectful, like it had entered a palace. The page glowed even before I touched it.
It began to sketch domes, golden and round like morning suns. Then came the water, reflecting the Sultan Omar Ali Saifuddien Mosque, so perfectly that I almost didn’t know which was the drawing and which the dream.
The pencil paused to tell me a secret: this mosque stands partly on a lagoon, its bridge made of marble so white that even clouds blush beside it.
I shaded a few ripples below, and the reflection smiled back at me. When I signed my name, the pencil shimmered faintly— as if it too had learned how to bow in light.
✨ If your pencil met its reflection, what truth would it draw first?
