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

I remember the hush before I existed—the trembling dust, the cold and endless dark. I was nothing, yet everything that would ever be stirred within me. Pressure pressed me together, invisible hands molding me, shaping me into possibility. I quivered, I shivered, I resisted—and then I surrendered. That surrender became my ignition. I was fire before I knew my own name. Light surged from me, stretching into the void, claiming the darkness not as dominion, but as declaration: I

For years, I thought the meaning of life revealed itself in big, cinematic moments: graduations, weddings, career leaps. But the older I get, the more I realize life happens in the quiet in-betweens—the morning cup of tea, a walk without your phone, the familiar way you smooth the sheets before bed. Rituals don’t arrive with fireworks. They come as ordinary acts, repeated so often we hardly notice—until we realize they’ve been holding us steady all along. Here are seven lesso

There are places where the world grows thin—where sound, scent, and shadow blur into something almost remembered. In one such place, by the edge of a quiet garden and a patient lake, a being tends the threshold between dreams and waking. Where the Garden Dreams is a glimpse into that fragile in-between, where beauty breathes, time bends, and belief is all that keeps the unseen alive. In the hush between the rustle of leaves and the hum of dusk, it stirs— a being not of ou

Like a shimmer, a fleeting breath of light — beyond the mountains that stretch as far as the eye can see. There lies a stillness, a whisper between realms. I glimpse it faintly — a ripple upon the veil of time. I breathe what has never been breathed, walk the path carved by shadows and memory. This body, this vessel, moves toward something eternal. And as the horizon bends, a figure appears. He raises his eyes slowly, and the world tilts — the air thick with the weight of for

In a small kampung nestled at the foot of the mountains, life moved at a pace so slow that even time seemed to have trouble catching up. The kampung was a patchwork of bamboo huts, narrow dirt roads, and swaying coconut trees that whispered in the wind. The days were long and peaceful, filled with the hum of farming work, the chatter of elders, and the simple joys of community life. But for Ari, the youngest son of the village’s oldest family, this tranquil existence felt m

No one really knew her full name. To the children chasing chickens in the lane, to the women whispering under rattan fans, and to the young men zooming past on their kapchais , she was simply Nyah Bibi . Her house stood at the far end of Lorong Bunga Raya , a traditional wooden structure with shuttered windows and a red-tiled roof, faded with time but dignified in its quiet way. Paper lanterns hung limp in the heat. The air always seemed thick with the scent of belimbing

“ Not all prisons have bars. Some are built from silence and expectations .” Evangeline Teo was the picture of grace—elegant cheongsam always pressed, her hair in a neat twist, pearls around her neck like punctuation marks. Wife of Dato ’ Reyes Teo, a prominent banker whose face appeared often in The Star , she lived in a house tucked behind iron gates in Damansara Heights. The kind of house with silent maids, mango trees trimmed just so, and a prayer altar that smelled fain

The recent news about the young girl who was stabbed—over 200 times —hit me harder than I expected. It wasn’t just another tragedy on the evening news. It was personal. My brother was stabbed over 180 times by someone who was having an episode. That kind of loss doesn’t just fade—it reshapes you. In the years since, I’ve tried to make sense of it through my art. I released an album with songs that attempt to capture that pain—the confusion, the silence that follows, and the