life

Tag: dailyprompt-1875

  • The Shape of Unfinished Moments. 150.2

    A glass of water left untouched—
    Not forgotten, just waiting.

    The Apartment with the Locked Drawer

    He never considered himself sentimental.

    That was for people who saved ticket stubs in shoeboxes, for those who traced their fingers over old photographs as if touch could bring the past back. For people who kept old letters in the backs of drawers, even though the words had long since lost their meaning.

    But then, there was the drawer.

    The one in his desk. The one that was always locked, though he couldn’t remember when or why he had first started keeping it that way.

    There wasn’t much inside—just a few old receipts, a key he didn’t recognize, a folded piece of paper he never opened. But he never touched it. Never cleaned it out. Never threw any of it away.

    Maybe it was nothing. Just clutter. Just things. But after a while, it stopped being just a locked drawer.

    It became a question.

    Something unfinished. Something waiting. Something that, for whatever reason, he wasn’t ready to face.

    The Strange Comfort of Leaving Things Unresolved

    Not everything needs to be understood.

    Some people leave messages unanswered, not because they don’t care, but because responding would mean stepping into something too real.

    Some people keep a shirt from years ago, hidden in the back of a closet, not because they still need it, but because letting go of it would mean accepting that the person they were when they wore it no longer exists.

    Some people have locked drawers.

    Not because there’s something valuable inside. Not because they are hiding anything. But because some things feel more meaningful when left untouched.

    Maybe it’s human nature. The need to leave a door slightly open, just in case. The need to keep some things undefined, just so they can continue existing in a way that feels safe.

    The Drawer, the Key, the Question Left Unanswered

    One night, he stood by the desk, fingers resting against the cool metal of the handle. It had been years since he had last tried to open it. He wasn’t sure what had changed, why this night felt different from all the others.

    He reached for the key—the one he had never used, the one that had always been there. He turned it. The lock clicked, quiet but certain.

    The drawer slid open.

    Inside, nothing had changed. The same old receipts. The same key. The same folded paper, edges softened from years of waiting.

    He picked it up. Unfolded it.

    Just a name. A date. A place he had forgotten.

    Something small. Something meaningless. Something that, for reasons he couldn’t explain, still made his chest tighten just a little.

    He placed it back inside. Locked the drawer.

    Turned off the light.

    Some things don’t need to be understood.

    Some questions are meant to stay unanswered.

  • The Shape of Unspoken Beliefs. 150.1

    A coin in the street—
    Heads up, I pick it up.
    Tails, I walk away.

    The Apartment with the Flickering Light

    He never considered himself superstitious.

    That was for old men in small villages, for grandmothers who whispered about bad luck with their hands in soapy dishwater, for the kind of people who knocked on wood as if it could change the course of fate.

    But then, there was the light.

    The flickering bulb in the entryway of his apartment, the one that always dimmed when he stepped inside. Not for anyone else. Just him.

    He changed it once. Twice. Three times. Still, the same thing.

    Maybe it was the wiring. Maybe it was nothing. But after a while, it stopped being just a faulty light. It became a sign.

    A hesitation in his chest, a pause before unlocking the door. A quiet whisper in the back of his mind: not tonight.

    The Thin Line Between Logic and Ritual

    Superstition is just a habit you don’t question.

    Some people check the stove three times before leaving the house.
    Some people never sit at the corner of a table.
    Some people whisper a wish before blowing out a candle, as if breath alone could rearrange the future.

    Not because they truly believe in it. Not because they’re afraid. But because it costs nothing to obey.

    The world is unpredictable. Things fall apart for no reason at all. A life can change with a missed train, an unopened email, a moment of bad timing.

    So we invent rules. Small ones. Personal ones.

    We step over cracks.
    We hold our breath in tunnels.
    We tell ourselves if the light flickers when we come home, it’s a warning.

    Not because we believe.

    But because it makes the chaos feel just a little more manageable.

    Wabi-Sabi and the Beauty of Uncertainty

    Wabi-sabi tells us to embrace imperfection, to see beauty in things that change, things that break, things that don’t last.

    Maybe superstition is the same. A way of accepting that the world will never be fully under our control.

    Because isn’t it a kind of faith?

    • To think that a certain song playing at the right time means something.
    • To believe that some places hold bad energy, even if there’s no proof.
    • To let small rituals guide you, not because they’re real, but because they feel real.

    Maybe it’s not about luck at all.

    Maybe it’s just about paying attention.

    Lessons from a Man Who Didn’t Believe in Signs

    • Superstition isn’t weakness. It’s just another way of making sense of things.
    • Some habits are logic. Some habits are ghosts. It’s hard to tell the difference.
    • Even if you don’t believe in signs, they might still believe in you.
    • The world is full of coincidences. And maybe, that’s the real magic.

    The Light, the Door, the Night That Went Unchanged

    One night, he came home, and the light didn’t flicker.

    For the first time in months, it stayed solid. Bright. Steady.

    He stood in the doorway longer than he should have, staring at it.

    It was nothing. Just a bulb. Just a circuit that finally worked the way it was supposed to.

    And yet—he couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted. That some invisible thread had been cut. That whatever force had been trying to tell him something had finally gone silent.

    He stepped inside.

    Nothing happened.

    But for a long time, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had just missed something important.