Quiet Paragraphs

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  • quiet paragraph: where the raindrops land

    I’m sitting at the dining table, watching the world go by outside our kitchen window. My soft gaze suggests I’m unbothered—but really, I’m hoping to catch a glimpse of creativity passing by.

    The pen, gently resting between my fingers, is begging for attention, and I’m letting it dry out carelessly. Empty sheets of yellowed paper wait patiently beneath my hand, as if they know they’ll be soaked in ink sooner or later. I admire that kind of confidence—because all I can focus on is the rain.

    The sky isn’t clouded. It’s just grey. Miles and miles of moodiness. It’s dull, it’s bleak, and I’ve chosen to hide away from it just so I can indulge in it. I’m aware of every raindrop landing in its place—seemingly the final stop. But don’t be fooled. It’s only a small part of the journey.

    And maybe that’s the same with days like this. When nothing seems to move forward, when words don’t flow, and the world feels soggy and still—maybe that’s not the end. Maybe it’s just another stop along the way.

  • the all-too-familiar old wardrobe

    the all-too-familiar old wardrobe

    Waking up with the feeling of being at home is precious to me. This morning, when I opened my eyes and saw the all-too-familiar old wardrobe standing tall in the corner of the room, a sense of contentment wrapped around me like the thick blanket lying across my body.

    The air was cold and crisp, and a faint scent of wood lingered in the room. Sunlight peeked through the gaps around the blinds, framing the window in a soft glow.

    It’s been a while since I started my day like this, and so I stayed in bed for a while, soaking it in. I felt I deserved this moment—this quiet, familiar stillness—and naturally, I wanted to let it linger.

    It’s not really the wardrobe—it’s the feeling. That sense of rootedness, of knowing where the light switch is without needing to look. It’s the grounding energy, it’s letting my feet navigate the old wooden floors without thinking. It’s the endless memories. It’s the falling into a warm, soft hug.

    It’s home.

    Over the past few months, most mornings have felt like being pulled out of water mid-dream—confusing, disorienting. But today, I floated. It wasn’t just refreshing; it was like taking a breath of fresh air after gasping for one for far too long.