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 centimeters.
In the bites of tapsilog.
In small talk.
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.
Plot twist:
Nothing changed.
Nothing changed.
But maybe that’s the point.
The shift isn’t in the world.
It’s in the way
you finally learned
to see it.
And suddenly,
even a regular Tuesday
feels like a small win.
Not bad for someone
who used to sleepwalk through mornings.
Turns out,
I wasn’t waiting for a new life.
I was just waiting
to wake up to this one.