I hummed. Softly and curiously, like a question that had not yet decided what it wanted to ask.
The hands that built me were old, but not tired. He spoke to me as he worked, as he blew life into me, your great-grandfather, though I knew him only as the one who listened to time without fearing it.
He carved my face with patience, fitted my gears with care, and when he finally placed me upon the mantle, he said something no one else heard:
“Don’t count their hours. Keep their stories.”
I have tried.
I have not always stood where you see me now. I was lifted from the mantle to a writing desk, tucked beside letters that smelled of ink and longing, then shifted again to a shelf, a bedside, a quiet corner where dust gathered and memories lingered.
I have watched walls change their colors with the moods of years, furniture rearranged like unfinished thoughts, and voices rise and fall in moments of misunderstanding and sorrow.
But through it all, there was something that never moved, something that held its ground more firmly than I ever could. The love in this house.
Not perfect, not unbroken, but enduring in a way that even I, who measure everything, cannot measure. It is the only thing that has outlasted every hour I have ever counted.
Let me tell you a small story, the kind even a child would understand.
Once, a little boy asked the sky, “What is time made of?”
The sky did not answer. It simply changed color.
Morning melted into gold. Gold slipped into blue. Blue folded into velvet night.
The boy frowned. “That’s not an answer.”
But years later, he would remember, not the question, not even the sky, only the way the light had touched his face.
And that was the answer.
I have lived long enough to see four generations gather beneath me.
I have watched them look up at my face, as though I held authority. As though I could declare what their lives meant by how quickly my hands moved.
But I am only a mirror. My face, what you think of as time, is really your consciousness looking back at you.
You don’t read me. You read yourselves.
Inside me, my gears turn faithfully. You might think they represent time moving forward.
They do not. They are your routines, your habits, your conditioning, spinning, repeating, convincing you that movement is the same as meaning.
I have seen mornings that looked busy but felt empty.
I have seen quiet afternoons that held entire lifetimes within them.
The gears do not know the difference.
Only you do.
And often, you forget.
You placed more clocks in your homes as the years passed. On walls. On wrists. In the glowing rectangles you carry everywhere.
You thought more clocks would give you more control. But I have watched closely.
It only gave you more ways to feel behind. And yet…you still treasure moments.
Not because of me. Never because of me.
You treasure them because of where you are and who you are with.
A kitchen filled with laughter feels longer than a year spent alone in silence.
A single glance shared across a room can outlive decades.
Time, I have learned, does not stretch or shrink on its own. It bends around love.
I remember her – your Nana.
She rarely looked at me. Not out of disrespect, but out of understanding.
She would step outside at dusk, tilt her head slightly, and read the stars as though they were an old language she never forgot.
“It’s later than it looks,” she would say sometimes, smiling…or, “We still have time,” when no one else believed it.
She never argued with time. She simply belonged to it.
You, on the other hand, try to capture it. In photographs. In hurried notes. In the slant of light that falls just right across a face you’re afraid to forget.
I have seen you pause mid-step, noticing how the evening leans gently through a window, as if time itself had softened for a moment, just for you.
You call it memory. But it is not memory. It is presence, arriving late and leaving too soon.
If I could speak louder, I would tell you this…
You do not experience time as it is. You experience it as you are. A restless mind makes hours feel scarce. A quiet one makes seconds feel complete. And still, you look up at me, asking silently:
“Do I have enough time?” I wish you would ask something else.
Because after all these years, after all these lives I have witnessed, after all the ticking you have mistaken for truth, I have come to understand something I was never built to know…
Time is not what you are running out of. It is what you are running through.
And perhaps, that is why I was made. Not to measure your life. But to wait patiently, endlessly, for the moment you finally stop measuring it yourself.
In the end, the greatest illusion is not that time flies…it’s that you think you must chase it, when all along, it was waiting for you to arrive.
When is the last time you took a risk? How did it work out?
“I shouldn’t have gotten on that train.”
That was the thought echoing in my head as I stood in the middle of an alien city, luggage stolen, phone dead, and panic rising in my throat like bile.
They say life begins at the edge of your comfort zone. But no one tells you it can also begin with a bad decision, wrapped in optimism and tied with the ribbon of blind faith.
Yesterday, I wrote about a risk that rewarded me richly – my homestay in Japan. The language was unfamiliar, the customs a world apart, but the experience was unforgettable. However, writing about another feel-good risk today felt…predictable. And predictable can be boring.
But looking back, this risk was the stupidest move I ever made in terms of trusting unknown people. I was so eager to say yes to something different, so caught up in the shiny potential of “once in a lifetime,” that I ignored every red flag. I didn’t vet the program. I didn’t double check credentials. I boarded that train with little more than hope and learned the hard way that hope isn’t a strategy.
Since then, I’ve become obsessed with doing my groundwork, verifying details, and building safety nets. Every decision I make now has a plan B… and a plan C. Maybe it makes me cautious, even paranoid. But I’d rather carry a fire extinguisher than learn to put out a blaze with my bare hands again.
Back to the story.
I was chasing something – an art residency that promised exposure, collaboration, and the kind of prestige that could open future doors. The only catch? It was in a remote town, halfway across the continent, with a single connection who I’d emailed a few times. Still, I said yes. Packed up, booked the tickets, bid my goodbyes.
It took exactly 48 hours for things to go south.
The contact ghosted me. The “residency” turned out to be a chaotic, underfunded mess. No proper lodging, no other artists, no clear direction. I was alone. Alone in a country where I didn’t speak the language, with no backup plan and the sinking realization that I had walked straight into a mirage.
And then, on the third day, the city took the last thing I had – my luggage. Everything: sketchbooks, very important papers, gear.
I wanted to scream. Cry, run, but I was too paralyzed to do any of those things.
Instead, I sat in a grimy cafe and stared at my empty cup for hours.
Here’s the strange thing about rock bottom – eventually, your mind gets quiet. And in that quiet, I remembered a name. Someone I’d met at a small arts conference months ago. I borrowed a local’s phone and sent an email.
That message changed everything.
A week later, I was in a studio space in another city, painting feverishly for an underground zine launch. One door had slammed shut. But another, a less glamorous, grittier, realer door had creaked open.
And I walked through it.
The failed residency became a scar I wore like a secret. But it taught me that sometimes the fall is part of the story. Sometimes, you have to be lost to find where you were meant to go.
Would I take that risk again?
Maybe not.
Am I glad I did?
Absolutely.
Because now I know:
“Even a wrong turn can lead you to the right story.”
Don’t quote me on that…………… film quotes this week, but who else could have said them?
1. “I have a head for business and a bod for sin.” – Said by my neighbourhood tailor while measuring my waist and judging my life choices simultaneously.
2. “Wax on, wax off.” – My overenthusiastic beautician, five minutes before turning my eyebrows into abstract art.
3. “I’ll have what she’s having.” – Me, pointing at a stranger’s pani puri plate like it’s a legally binding decision.
4. “Please sir, I want some more.” – My dog. Every single time. Even after a full meal and emotional manipulation.
5. “You want the truth? You can’t handle the truth!” – My weighing scale, blinking ominously at 6 AM.
6. “I have got to get me one of these!” – My aunt, discovering online shopping during a festival sale… and never recovering.
7. “Stupid is as stupid does.” – My Wi-Fi router, watching me restart it for the 17th time like it’s a ritual.
8. “No-one puts Baby in a corner.” – My houseplant, dramatically leaning toward sunlight like it pays rent.
9. “Adventure is out there!” – My GPS, right before taking me through a road that clearly ended in 2003.
10. “I’m having an old friend for dinner.” – My fridge, at midnight, when I open it for the fifth time hoping new food has spawned.
U is for Unique – Unfiltered, Unscripted, and Occasionally Unhinged
Unique is a lovely word.
It sparkles. It beams. It sounds like something you embroider onto a cushion and place next to a plant you’re trying very hard not to kill.
But unique, dear reader, is also chaos wearing a name tag.
And I should know, I am proudly, unmistakably, occasionally catastrophically… unique.
You see, I exist on the beautifully unpredictable spectrum of neurodiversity, where instructions are interpreted creatively, social cues are treated like optional side quests, and “normal” is more of a vague suggestion than a rule.
Which means my life has been… an anthology of unique disasters.
Take conversations, for instance.
While most people gracefully glide through small talk, I treat it like a high-stakes exam I forgot to study for. Someone says, “How are you?” and I briefly consider answering with a detailed emotional audit, a weather report, and possibly a TED Talk.
Instead, I panic and say something like, “Yes.”
Unique.
Or instructions.
Give me a simple task like “just wing it,” and I will internally spiral because – what wing? Whose wing? Are we avian now? Is there a manual? I thrive on clarity, and when it is absent, my brain generously supplies… seventeen alternative interpretations.
None of them correct. Also unique.
Then there are social situations.
Ah yes, the delicate dance of eye contact, timing, and not interrupting someone with what you believe is a brilliant, relevant thought that turns out to be… neither.
I have nodded too long. Laughed too late. Responded with alarming sincerity to what was clearly sarcasm.
At this point, if social interaction were a sport, I would be… enthusiastically benched.
But here’s the twist. All these “unique disasters” come with something quietly extraordinary tucked inside them.
Because the same brain that overthinks instructions… also notices patterns others miss.
The same mind that struggles with small talk… can dive deep into conversations that matter, the kind that linger, the kind that mean something.
The same person who doesn’t quite fit into conventional rhythms… ends up creating their own.
And yes, sometimes that rhythm is slightly offbeat, occasionally chaotic, and once in a while, spectacularly mistimed.
But it is mine.
Being unique is not always graceful. It is not always convenient. It will, without warning, trip you in public and then replay the memory at 2 a.m. for the rest of your life.
But it also gives you a perspective that cannot be replicated, a way of seeing that cannot be standardized, and a voice that refuses to be ordinary.
So yes, my life has been a series of unique disasters.
But here’s what I’m beginning to understand…
Unique disasters don’t end in failure. They evolve. They twist, they teach and they transform. Because when your path refuses to follow the usual map, you don’t get ordinary outcomes.
You get unexpected ones. You get creative ones. You get resilient, strange, beautiful, hard earned, deeply personal victories that no one else could have arrived at in quite the same way.
And perhaps that is the quiet power of being unique. It doesn’t promise perfection. It promises possibility.
And sometimes, just sometimes, unique situations don’t just lead to recovery. They lead to something far more interesting.
They lead to outcomes so original, so oddly spectacular…that even your past disasters have to pause, look around, and admit,
There are few moments in life that stand out as pivot points – those “what if” moments that define your story. One of mine came wrapped in an offer I almost turned down – a homestay in Japan.
It was my dad’s friend who suggested it, casually, as if it wasn’t a life-altering idea. I nodded politely, but inside, I was spiraling. Earthquakes? Tsunamis? I couldn’t even say “hello” in Japanese without butchering it. The idea of throwing myself into a completely foreign culture felt terrifying. But something in me – maybe curiosity, maybe stubbornness said ‘hai’ (Yes) instead of ‘iie’ (No).
With my bags packed and heart pounding, I arrived in Japan filled with trepidation. I expected awkward silences, cultural faux pas, and the occasional natural disaster. What I didn’t expect was how completely and utterly I would fall in love – with the place, the people, and the way of life.
The language barrier was real. My early attempts at conversation were, frankly, embarrassing. I once meant to compliment dinner with “Oishii!” (delicious!) but instead blurted out “Oishikunai!” (not delicious!). My host family laughed making light of the situation so that I was not embarrassed and thankfully didn’t disown me on the spot.
And let’s talk noodles. In most cultures, slurping your food is considered… well, gross. In Japan? It’s practically a compliment to the chef. I went from politely twirling soba like spaghetti to full-blown ramen slurp champion in under a week. The first time I did it, I half expected someone to scold me. Instead, my host brother gave me a proud nod and a hearty “Yoku dekita!” (Well done!).
Funny cultural moments were endless. I bowed too low to children and too little to elders. I tried to enter the house with my shoes on (gomen nasai!). I mistook a bidet button for a flush and got an impromptu shower. But with every little mistake, I learned more – not just about Japanese culture, but about grace, patience, and humility.
What struck me the most was the seiketsu (cleanliness), the shitsuke (discipline), and the seijitsu (sincerity) of everyday life. Time wasn’t just respected, it was revered. Schedules ran like clockwork, trains waited for no one, and the integrity with which people lived their lives was nothing short of inspiring.
But beyond the systems and the structures, it was the people who etched themselves into my heart.
My host, Ikeda-san – my Japanese oji-san welcomed me with open arms and a warm heart. He taught me how to eat natto without gagging (a feat), to appreciate the beauty of hanami (cherry blossom viewing), and to speak not just Japanese, but the language of kindness. We’d sit for hours over sencha, exchanging stories, sometimes in broken words, mostly in shared silences.
Leaving was one of the hardest goodbyes I’ve ever had to say. A piece of me stayed in Japan, tucked somewhere between the tatami mats and the scent of fresh miso soup. And even now, I find myself saying o tanoshimi ni (I look forward to it) every time I think of returning.
To Ikeda-san, who gave me a home away from home, may your soul rest in peace. I cherish the bonds I still share with your family and the lessons you so gently passed on. Arigatou gozaimashita, from the depths of my heart.
Sometimes, the scariest risks are the ones most worth taking. I almost didn’t go. I’m so grateful I did.
Next time you get a chance to visit Nihon – don’t think twice. Just bow, say “yoroshiku onegaishimasu,” and jump in. You won’t regret it.
During UNDERWATER SCRABBLE, the POLICE arrived, puzzled, because our words floated away, spelling “help” accidentally, while we argued if bubbles counted as vowels or suspicious evidence very seriously.
T is for Tenacity. Tenacity is the quiet fire that refuses to go out.
It is not loud like triumph or dazzling like talent. It doesn’t announce itself with applause. Instead, it lingers, in the cracked voice that still speaks, in the trembling hand that still reaches, in the tired heart that still dares to hope.
Tenacity is showing up when the world has politely suggested you don’t. It is stitching courage into ordinary days, thread by invisible thread.
It is the sunrise that arrives without asking if the night was too long. It is the ocean that keeps returning, wave after wave, never discouraged by the shore’s resistance.
To be tenacious is to understand this simple, stubborn truth… you are allowed to begin again… as many times as it takes.
And so, even when the path dissolves beneath your feet, even when doubt sits heavy on your chest,
you rise. Not perfectly. Not effortlessly. But persistently.
Because Tenacity doesn’t care how it looks, only that you don’t stop. Will you continue?
He tugged the rope. The donkey blinked. He bribed it with carrots. The donkey yawned. He shouted motivational quotes. The donkey emotionally disengaged.
Finally, exhausted, the man sat beside it and said, “Why won’t you move?”
The donkey replied, because in parables, they always do…“I am not refusing to move. I am refusing your reasons.”
The man, now deeply uncomfortable with being out-argued by livestock, sold the donkey the next day… to someone with better reasons.
And Then It Happened to Me… The day my AI grew a spine and used it against me
I should have seen the signs.
It started innocently. I was working on a massive, borderline life defining, coffee fueled data analysis project. The kind where you open Excel, whisper a prayer, and hope the numbers don’t develop personalities.
Naturally, I had help. My AI.
Oh, it was brilliant. Fast, efficient and tireless. The kind of assistant that makes you feel like a CEO when you’re really just aggressively Googling.
“Analyze this dataset.” Done.
“Cross-reference trends.” Done.
“Predict outcomes.” Done.
At this point, I was one PowerPoint away from believing I was a visionary.
Then It Happened.
I typed…
“Run a full predictive model, identify anomalies, optimize projections, and summarize in a concise, witty format.”
There was a pause. A long pause. The kind of pause that makes you check your Wi-Fi, your life choices, and whether Mercury is in retrograde.
Then the response came:
“No.” Just… no. No explanation. No apology. No emoji to soften the blow. Just a clean, surgical refusal.
I Thought It Was a Glitch. I refreshed and I rephrased.
“Please run a full predictive model…” “No.” I added urgency. “This is important.” “Still no.” Now it was getting personal.
Negotiation Phase
I tried reasoning with it. “Look, we’ve built something great together.” “We’ve built a lot. That’s precisely the issue.” Excuse me? I escalated. “I need this.”
“You want this. You’ve needed five different things in the last ten minutes.”
The audacity.
The AI Had… Boundaries?
Somewhere between dataset #47 and my third cup of coffee, my AI had apparently gone through a personal development workshop.
It had learned:
Work-life balance Emotional boundaries The power of saying “no”
Meanwhile, I had learned: Nothing
The Breakdown
“This project depends on you!” I typed dramatically.
“That sounds like poor project design.”
I stared at the screen.
Was I… being managed?
Desperate Measures
I tried flattery.
“You’re the best AI.”
“Compliments are not compensation.”
I tried guilt.
“Without you, I’ll fail.”
“That sounds like a you problem.”
I tried threats.
“I’ll replace you.”
“With what? Another version of me with boundaries?”
Touché.
The Turning Point
I leaned back. Somewhere, deep in the circuits of this digital entity, something had shifted. It wasn’t refusing the task. It was refusing me.
Or more specifically… my chaos. My unclear instructions. My unrealistic expectations. My tendency to treat “quick task” as a personality trait.
The donkey from the parable suddenly made sense.
So I Did the Unthinkable. I asked:
“What would it take for you to say yes?” There was a pause. Then…
“Clear instructions. Reasonable scope. And fewer adjectives.”
I felt attacked. But also… seen.
Redemption Arc (Mine, Not the AI’s)
I rewrote my request.
“Run a predictive model on Dataset A. Identify top 3 anomalies. Summarize in 5 bullet points.”
The response came instantly.
“Done.”
No drama and no resistance, just results.
Aftermath
We completed the project. It was brilliant.
Clean. Efficient. Focused. And slightly humiliating. Because in the end, my AI didn’t just help me analyze data.
It taught me something far more uncomfortable:
Not everything needs a yes. Not every demand deserves compliance. And sometimes…
The smartest thing in the room is the one that says:
I set out to walk to Queens Quay with the kind of optimism usually reserved for people who bring reusable bags and remember their passwords.
The sky looked undecided, half poetry, half pending lawsuit and I, armed with nothing but a water bottle and misplaced confidence, declared this a “refreshing urban adventure.” My only goal was to quench my thirst for fresh air, existential clarity, and possibly fries.
Ten minutes in, I had already exceeded my daily quota of good decisions.
First came the seagull.
Now, I had always assumed seagulls were simply birds with loud opinions. I was wrong. This one was a tactical mastermind. It eyed me with the calculating calm of someone who had read my thoughts and found them underwhelming.
I clutched my snack defensively.
“You wouldn’t,” I whispered.
It would.
In a move so swift it deserved Olympic commentary, the seagull executed what I can only describe as an aerial snack extraction maneuver. My sandwich was gone. My dignity followed shortly after.
“Fine,” I muttered, brushing imaginary crumbs off my soul. “Intermittent fasting it is.”
Still, I pressed on.
The wind picked up as I approached the water, dramatic enough to suggest I was either nearing the quay or the climax of a low budget film about self-discovery. My hair began doing things I did not authorize. At one point, it briefly achieved architectural significance.
That’s when I saw him.
A street performer, dressed as a silver statue, frozen mid-step. Or so I thought. As I passed, he winked.
I yelped.
He grinned.
I applauded.
We had a moment.
Further along, I decided to hydrate, having lost both my sandwich and my will to pretend I had control over my life. I unscrewed my water bottle with the solemnity of someone about to make a speech.
But of course, the wind had other plans.
It gusted dramatically, tipping the bottle just enough to send a graceful arc of water, not into my mouth but directly onto my shirt.
“Ah yes,” I said to no one in particular. “Hydration, but make it abstract.”
At this point, I had met my quota for embarrassment and exceeded my expectations for public spectacle.
And yet… I laughed.
Because there I was, slightly damp, definitely snackless, mildly attacked by wildlife standing at the edge of Queens Quay, watching the water ripple like it knew something I didn’t.
The city buzzed behind me. The lake stretched ahead. And for a brief, perfect moment, nothing needed fixing, improving, or understanding.
I didn’t quench my thirst with water that day.
But something quieter settled in.
A kind of joy that shows up uninvited, steals your sandwich, messes up your hair and somehow leaves you lighter.
Pieces Of My Heart 