I used to rush through mornings.
Everything was a blur. Breakfast, commute, chaos.
All checklist, no consciousness.
But lately, I’ve been noticing things again.
How sunlight hits the same corner of the wall every 7:32 a.m.
How the bus conductor hums under his breath before the first wave of commuters.
How the air smells different right before it rains.
Maybe it’s age.
Maybe it’s burnout.
Or maybe it’s just finally understanding that not everything needs to change to be meaningful.
Because the truth is, life doesn’t move in leaps.
It unfolds in cms.
In the bites of tapsilog.
In small talks.
In shared glances and quiet returns.
We keep waiting for big moments to feel alive.
But maybe aliveness is hiding in the routines we take for granted.
In the sound of the train quietly running.
In the flicker of streetlights.
In the weight of a bag you’ve carried so long it feels like part of you.
Nothing new happened.
But maybe that’s the point.
The shift isn’t in the world.
It’s in the way you finally learned to see it.