Silent Conversations
Sometimes the quietest places hold the loudest parts of who we are...
Tonight, I lay back on the old bench in the garden—the one that has aged alongside me. Its wooden frame groans softly beneath me, worn down by time, carrying the weight of countless moments spent in its embrace. Resting here feels more like revisiting a memory than simply lying down—like meeting a past version of myself, familiar yet distant.
Above, the sky stretches wide, sprinkled with stars. I let my gaze drift, moving from one shimmering dot to another, the same way I did as a child. Back then, I believed they held stories—messages waiting for me to decode if I looked long enough. Maybe part of me still believes that.
Every now and then, a plane moves across the sky, its blinking lights tracing a quiet path. From here, it’s just a tiny speck, but inside, people are traveling—toward something, away from something, or lingering somewhere in between. I wonder if they are chasing dreams, escaping, or simply searching. It makes me realize how, even in the stillness of this garden, I remain connected to a world so much bigger than myself.
Next to the bench, a jasmine plant sways gently. Its fragrance is subtle but steady, carried by the breeze like a soft memory. Still, I can’t help but think of the tree that used to grow here—the plumeria.
That tree was special to me. It wasn’t just part of the garden; it was part of my life. Its thick branches stretched over the bench, offering shade and comfort. During my board exams, I sat beneath it for hours—books open, eyes tired, mind full of worry. The tree didn’t do much. It simply stood there. But somehow, its presence made everything feel a little less overwhelming. Its flowers fell quietly to the ground, soft and white, and I always found peace in watching them drift down.
Then, one day, it was gone.
Cut down because of some superstition—something about it bringing bad luck. No one asked how much it meant to me. They just took it away. And what was left wasn’t just empty soil. It was the silence of something important being taken without warning. I still miss it. Not just the tree, but the feeling of being understood without words.
Now, it’s the moon who keeps me company.
She peeks through the gaps in the jasmine leaves, lighting up the night in her quiet way. I’ve always felt closer to her than the sun. The sun is bold, blazing, and distant. It stands alone in the sky, giving life but asking for space. I respect it—but I don’t reach for it.
The moon, though... she arrives softly. She doesn’t need to be loud. She is surrounded by stars, much like I am surrounded by my family during peaceful nighttime conversations. She doesn’t expect anything. She simply exists. And sometimes, that’s all we really need.
To me, the sun and the moon are like two sides of every person. The sun is our strength, our fire—the version of us the world sees. The moon is our softness, our quiet thoughts—the side we rarely show, but the one that knows us best.
Watching her tonight, I am reminded that everything changes. The moon waxes and wanes. She disappears, then returns. She teaches me that even when things go away, they can come back—different, yes, but still beautiful in their own way.
I didn’t try to solve anything tonight. I didn’t plan or reflect too deeply. I just sat. And for a few minutes, that was enough. I felt okay—not perfect, not brilliant, just... okay. And maybe that’s what peace really is: the ability to rest without needing to be anything more than you already are.
So if life feels heavy right now, if your thoughts are loud and your heart feels tired, maybe tonight you can step outside. Even if it’s just onto your balcony or by an open window. Breathe in the night. Look up. Let the stars remind you that you don’t have to do it all. Not tonight.
Just pause. Just be. That is more than enough
