There’s beauty in the weight of ordinary things,
in the clatter of tea cups on a tired morning,
the gentle hum of voices in crowded spaces,
each one a life, a quiet story whispered
into the wide expanse of a single day.
In the grind of bus wheels against gravel,
And the rhythm of steps on busy sidewalks,
I feel a kind of music,
An unspoken song binding us all,
as we pass, as we pause, as we carry on.
Someone laughs, someone sighs,
a child tugs at their parent’s sleeve,
and we move through each other’s moments,
our paths crossing briefly like shadows,
leaving traces that linger, unseen.
And maybe life is this—
a thousand small things we barely notice,
the warmth of hands, the pulse of breath,
the silent courage of showing up each day,
to live, to feel, to carry on.
In the heart of it all, there is a quiet resilience,
a delicate strength in the simple act of being,
in meeting each ordinary day
with the fullness of who we are—
imperfect, unfinished, yet wholly alive.
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