Freedom is expensive. It is the thief that takes but gives you the illusion that you are choosing. It squanders the tears you shed for a pocketful of something you were never promised. Welcome to my world, where time bends and promises lie at your feet. The thunder that roars inside your head. The fire that courses through your veins. It is the inevitable, the thing that will eventually bury you. But oh, it is a beautiful thing. To be amongst the wreckage and still feel the p

PART I The Child of Frost and Stars She was born from the frost that gathered in the deepest corners of the forest, where the sky met the earth and the stars fell like silver embers from a violet night. They drifted through the darkness in shades of silver, blue, and pale gold before disappearing among the trees, where their light lingered long after dawn. From the moment she could remember, she felt ill-suited to the towering walls that enclosed her father's great fortress

There is a place I once knew. A place where every word I have ever spoken returns as rain, falling softly from a sky that remembers. Where crimson gathers at the edge of the horizon, not as the end of day, but as the beginning of remembrance. The pathways are lined with trees clothed in gold, their leaves trembling with stories too ancient for language. This is the courtyard of the Gods. Here, the life of every soul is spoken only in whispers, as though truth is too sacred to

It feels heavy again. That uncomfortable weight I can’t quite explain, only sit with. The pain isn’t always direct. Sometimes it’s in what’s implied, in what’s not said properly, but still understood. And I catch myself trying to make sense of it, trying to justify it in my own head just so I can deal with it. But there’s nothing clean about it. Nothing gentle either. I want to leave. I want space. I want to grow. But it doesn’t feel like that’s allowed. Because when things s

In the beginning, time divided itself into ages. Sparkling mountains framed in gold. The Golden Age holds its moulded rule, Kept by Zeus who holds the tide, Until it fades like a newborn into time. From its ending rises the Silver Age. Gentle, and free of grief to men, Yet it knows the first fracture of unity, Not betrayal, but the loss of innocence. Then comes the Glass Age. Alive with reflection, singing to itself. Truth becomes shifting vision, never fixed. Snowflakes

I often wonder about karma. The word is used so casually that it has almost become a shorthand for cosmic justice. Hah! Scenarios are often..someone behaves badly and suffers a setback or someone performs a good deed and experiences success! We nod knowingly and call it karma....a simple word that carries the weight of assumption, judgment, and the human need to make life feel fair. And when something unpleasant happens to someone who has caused harm, people often say: “karma

Art exists in a bubble…ever wonder what happens when that bubble bursts? It pops in the hands of critics, audiences, even ourselves. And that’s a good thing. Criticism isn’t a threat, it’s the friction that forces art to grow, to stretch, to surprise. Without it, work gets comfortable. Safe. Predictable. And safe art rarely leaves a mark. Creating in silence is easy. Growing? That takes someone, or yourself, asking, “Why this?” or “Why now?” That question can sting, but it al

Like most of my lyric writing, I’ve always leaned toward the spaces in between. What isn’t said, what isn’t obvious, what lingers just beneath the surface of a moment. Crowds have always intrigued me. Not in the obvious way. Not the noise or the movement, but in what they reveal without trying to. There’s a quiet contradiction in a crowd. You’re surrounded, and yet entirely on your own. Part of something, but not necessarily connected to it. I think, in some way, we all searc

This work sits in a space between observation and experience. It is not built around story or character, but around a gradual internal shift that is difficult to name while it is happening. The piece explores how distance can feel stable, until it no longer is. It comes from noticing how often we live slightly outside of what we are actually in. Watching, processing, holding things at what feels like a safe remove. And then, without a clear moment of transition, realising tha

There’s a silence that doesn’t arrive all at once. It starts small, a pause where your name used to be, a glance that slips past you, the faint echo of laughter that no longer includes you. You don’t notice it at first. Forgetting doesn’t roar. It drifts in like dust, soft, patient, almost kind, though never quite the kindness you once imagined. Once, you belonged to something bright. Maybe it was a season, a circle, a heartbeat that wasn’t only your own. You remember the war

We reach Always reaching Toward the infinite Time folds It folds Nor spiral, nor line It hums into itself Why do we reach? We reach only to grasp At the infinite that stretches for eternity And yet we cannot hold it Like happiness, fleeting, slipping through our fingers I ask you: What is infinity? What is eternity? Infinity and eternity are human attempts to name the unnameable Nothing begins Nothing ends And still we reach We are flawed This is our nature And yet we reach A

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