I move through days often lost at a loss for words at a loss for the meaning behind my own being To give To sow To reap To grow To cry And oh my… to feel! If I should still be If I should still give If I should still want If I should still need Every ache is a small death Every new beginning ends a thousand thoughts that never saw the light that never bore fruit And yet those very thoughts fuel the core of what makes me Dream Talk Smile Grow Rant Rave And love I live each day

Language is never truly static. It moves the way people move, carrying history, culture, and memory along with it. In Malaysia, everyday speech is shaped by geography, trade, and the long conversation between communities. Language is a traveller. It changes when people use it, and it settles when communities decide that a word feels comfortable enough to keep. Two small expressions illustrate this beautifully. Gostan “Gostan” is one of the most recognisable pieces of local c

There is a quiet mourning for the way things were. We call it simpler. Slower. More real. But perhaps it only feels that way because it is no longer ours to carry. Every generation meets its own resistance. Its own noise. Its own uncertainty dressed up as progress. This is not the end of something beautiful. It is the changing of the guard. Out with the old. In with the new. Not better. Not worse. Just different. The old does not disappear, it settles into memory, into muscl

Music was never meant to be disposable. Its essence has always lived in the dialogue between human emotion, technical discipline, and cultural storytelling. From the raw intensity of blues to the intricate harmonies of jazz, from the power of operatic voices to the intimacy of folk traditions, music has served as a bridge between souls. It demanded attention, reflection, and immersion. Today, that foundation is being quietly eroded, a slow decay like termites gnawing at the b

The new will arrive quietly, without announcement. It won’t knock or ask permission, it will simply begin. The old will loosen its grip, piece by piece, like rooms we once lived in but no longer visit. What is meant to stay will stay. What is meant to leave will finally know the way. © Lyia Meta. All rights reserved.

They sit quietly at the edge of a room, patient, unassuming, waiting. Yet they carry everything, every step taken, every path chosen, every place left behind, every place yet to be reached. Shoes do not judge. They do not measure. They simply hold space for movement, for becoming. Money, people say, is power. Money is freedom. But shoes know a deeper truth: without the ability to walk, to move, to carry yourself forward, what is money but a weight in your pocket? Shoes are th

The world turns turns and turns knowing nothing but itself remembering the waves, the wind, the light and dark, the hour folding into the hour She listens to the rise and fall, to the forces we cannot name the tug of unseen hands the currents that move us, that create us, that diminish us She turns unknowing of time, uncaring of grief, the voices that do not rejoice, the voices that do not speak The world turns for those who move with her folding, spinning, stretching she doe

One seat No waiting A ride to paradise? One seat Plush or bare This one seat is all you get One seat to witness One seat to wonder No second chances No redos One view One! One seat One! One choice One! Just one And it's yours !!! © 2025 Lyia Meta. All rights reserved. January 29th 2025 Not really standing under the rock… but one finger and the right perspective can make a 340-ton boulder feel like something you can hold. One moment, one choice, one chance to pause and wonder.

It isn’t the fall that breaks us. It’s standing too long on ground that never settles. When the days keep shifting, when nothing holds still long enough to breathe, hope doesn’t leave in a storm... it slips away quietly, tired of waiting for a safe place to land. Faith isn’t lost because life is hard. It fades when rest is postponed, when even sleep listens for trouble, and tomorrow never quite arrives. All anyone asks, really, is a moment where the body believes it can stop

Never trouble trouble until trouble troubles you. Worry is like that: it arrives uninvited, then asks you to set the table, then brings friends. One thought leans into the next. A maybe becomes a what if. A what if becomes a storm rehearsed a hundred times before a single drop has fallen. Worry begets worry. It multiplies in the quiet, borrows tomorrow’s fears, and charges interest on things that never happen. Yet most trouble passes by unnoticed when we don’t call it by nam

2025 has been one of the most trying years of my life. I still struggle to fully articulate it, the uncertainty, the awakenings, the divides, the quiet but constant need for support. More than anything, though, it has been a year that demanded understanding. Not only from those closest to me, but from myself, as the curtain slowly lifted and I learned to set aside my rose-tinted glasses, even if I still reach for them now and then to recalibrate. The curveballs came relentles

I woke up today and gazed into the mirror and the face that stared back wasn’t mine. Wasn’t she the one I once knew, the one who laughed, who danced, who remembered herself? Who is this woman living where I used to be? © 2023-2025 Lyia Meta. All rights reserved.

Imagine this. Each day strung along a bead… like an infinite string of pearls, each one catching the light for a moment before slipping into shadow. We move along the string, thinking it endless, thinking we have forever to notice its weight, to see what makes each day its own. But how much time do we really have? Not the hours on a clock, not the minutes we measure with lists—but the moments that stay with us, that settle quietly inside and shape the next day. Even as the cl

The day before Christmas feels magical. Not loud. Not demanding. Something suspended in the air. As though I am standing at the edge of something infinitely good. Peace. Hope. A quiet gathering of all that is gentle in the world, held together for a moment longer than usual. This day makes me hopeful. And it carries a deep sadness too, because this day will pass. A quiet reminder that nothing lasts, or all. I remember those no longer with us and those who were here long befor

She woke again at 3:17 a.m.—the hour the house held still. Outside, the late-night humidity pressed against the windows, softening the streetlights along her taman . A dog barked once, then silence returned. Above her, the ceiling fan whirred unevenly. The squeak had grown louder these past weeks. She needed to get it fixed. She reminded herself to call the electrician. The room was dim, warm, familiar. Then her awareness shifted—quietly, without drama. The edges of her bedro

Days… Or is it minutes, seconds — it’s hard to tell anymore. The colours around you start to fade, not gone, just muted, like someone turned the world down a notch without asking. And somewhere between the quiet and the confusion, you feel yourself slipping into a place you didn’t plan to go. There are moments like this, when the mind starts wandering off on its own path. It picks up old worries, old memories, old shadows — anything it can grab. It runs wild, not because you’

I write. Songs. Lyrics. Stories. Often ending with me chasing melodies. Melodies that don’t come. That are just out of reach. Tap. Tap. Tap. I tap the tip of my pen against the edge of my notebook, the edges frayed. A word arrives, but just as quickly, it skirts out of reach. I chase it with a line. I chase it with a melody I cannot hum— not yet . It’s a dance. Sometimes a foxtrot, sometimes a waltz, but most times it’s… messy, unpredictable, stubborn. Somewhere, a computer

I didn’t know better, so I tore myself down just to keep the peace. And in not knowing better, I wore every mask they handed me until none of them fit. ©️Lyia Meta

I walk through corridors. Each step deliberate. Each breath hears my own footsteps. I walk through corridors to witness what came before me, to understand what I see, to brace myself for what tomorrow brings. These corridors hold my secrets, my thoughts, my quiet moments. They speak without words, pointing to what is hidden, and remind me, in their own way, when my time will come. I walk. I walk because these corridors are all I see. I breathe. I understand. I wonder

Why should I? Isn't there a place that all these, All these memories go? Why should I forget, When all I ever see are the wheels that turn? The past, the present, intertwined, The rights, the wrong, the words I hear. Why should I, when all you ever do Is kill the very heart of who I am, So that you can live comfortably as the benevolent? Why would I forgive? Why would I give, When all you do is take? When should I, When I am everything, And you are... You are... Tell me, who