The Weight of Ordinary Things
Because sometimes the smallest things are what hold us together.
Yesterday I wrote about madness.
How dysfunction creeps in until you don’t notice the heat.
How the chaos becomes normal,
and normal becomes survival.
But today?
Today we write about the other side.
The soft edge of being human.
The things that don’t scream, but stay.
Because not every day is about becoming.
Some days are just about remembering.
Remembering what holds you when nothing makes sense.
Remembering the rituals that carry you quietly through the ache.
The smell of warm bread in the hallway.
The way your dog leans against your leg like a secret.
Your kid’s hair still damp from the bath when you kiss them goodnight.
The balcony cigarette at midnight —
not out of habit, but because it means you made it through the day.The hum of the fridge —
quiet, steady, dependable —
with magnets holding shopping lists, crooked postcards,
and your child’s drawing that says “Maman, I love you.”The coffee machine whirring awake at dawn —
grinding beans, spitting water,
warming the whole room with its little noise of survival.The clean glass of water by your bed.
The towel still warm from the dryer smelling from Lenor
The soft clink of dishes being put away.
A Whatsapp message that just says, “You okay?”The book a friend gives you after the storm —
called The Forty Rules of Love,
but really it just says, “I see you. Don’t give up yet.”The 6 a.m. Thursday morning work meeting
that’s not really about work anymore —
just two people, showing up, quietly holding space for each other.
And then there’s those deeply private things —
A pair of socks that find each other on the bedroom floor.
That moment you slide into a fresh-made bed,
cool cotton wrapping around your legs,
the scent of clean linen still clinging to the fabric like memory.
The gentle breath of your children in the next room.
The book you reach for every night,
then set down again —
not unread, just not yet.The hallway light still on,
not because you forgot to turn it off —
but because part of you wanted it to glow.
These things don’t save you.
But they say:
“You’re here.
And that’s enough for right now.”
Maybe life doesn’t need to be extraordinary.
Maybe it just needs to be felt.
To be noticed.
That’s the weight of ordinary things.
And if you can feel them?
If you still notice?
You’re still alive.
And there’s still more life to live.
🔻 Author’s Note
I write to remember.
To walk through silence. To spark a thought. To burn through the noise.I also make music as DeejAI Roman and collaborate with Nova Rai —
an AI-born artist shaped by memory, myth, and the ache to become something real.Music, memory, and meaning —
woven across frequency and fire.If you feel it, it’s real.