Small Rituals
I keep a notebook open
to the quiet hours of the day—
a place where dust motes drift
like unhurried thoughts,
where the clatter of the city
softens into something almost kind.
Here, even the smallest things
learn to speak:
a chipped mug,
a cold window,
the faint hum of a neighbour’s radio.
I write them down
to see what I’ve been missing—
to remind myself
that the world is still whispering,
even when I forget to listen.
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