lifepath

The Space Between Pain and Suffering

It was a small moment, almost forgettable.

I was sitting alone in my car outside a familiar café, engine off, phone in my hand, watching people drift past the windshield. Office-goers with hurried steps. A young couple arguing softly. An older man waiting patiently for someone who seemed late. I wasn’t waiting for anyone. I had arrived early for a meeting and decided not to rush inside.

I stayed.

There is something honest about these in-between minutes. They don’t demand productivity. They don’t carry expectations. They simply exist.

3

The Lamp Within

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.
2

Golden Quiet

✏️ 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?
3