It wasn’t special. Nothing grand happened. It was just a regular morning - clinic visits, coffee, quiet moments in church, and work from home. But maybe that was exactly the point.
Lately, I’ve been feeling the weight of time more than ever. My body reminds me of it every day - the leftover aches, the fatigue that never really went away after COVID, the slow realization that I’m not as strong as I used to be. And maybe that’s why I took out my old phone and pressed record.
Because I wanted to remember.
Not the milestones, not the big scenes - just this: the quiet rhythm of an ordinary day. The hum of life that keeps going even when I feel like slowing down.
Maybe it’s age. Maybe it’s fear. Maybe it’s acceptance.
There are moments when I feel that I don’t have much time left in this world - not in a tragic way, but in a quiet, honest way. And because of that, I’ve learned to hold on to the small things: the warmth of morning light, the calm of coffee steam, the silence of prayer.
I wanted to capture what “living” looks like for me now - the kind that doesn’t shout, but simply is.
Because if one day I’m no longer here, maybe these pieces of ordinary life will remind someone - maybe even me - that I tried. That I lived. That I was grateful.
So yes, I’m trying to document simple, routinary days.
Because sometimes, it’s in the most ordinary days that we find the clearest reflection of who we are - and how much of life we’ve truly loved.
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