Each morning I leave
the quiet hush of home,
engine stirring the stillness
as I slip onto the freeway—
a ribbon of silence
stretched wide with thought.
The world blurs past
in soft grey-blue hues,
headlights flicker like tiny prayers
off the hood,
and I wonder what waits for me
beyond the bend.
I approach the RBP gate—
solid, watchful,
a silent nod to structure, to duty.
Here, I pause,
not just for clearance,
but to shed the last layer
of personal softness,
preparing myself for
the shape of the day.
Inside the campus,
the road narrows,
with the remains of trees that used whisper
faint welcomes or warnings—
depending on the weight
I carry within.
The school gate opens
like a threshold
between two worlds.
Inside, routines wait,
faces wait,
needs, questions, small fires to tend.
I park the car,
nest it in its quiet corner
behind locks and fences,
a symbol of something contained
in a world where so much
feels uncontrollable.
But in this stillness,
just before I step out,
I breathe.
I remind myself
that every journey—
no matter how short,
no matter how routine—
is a chance to arrive
more aware,
more present,
more whole.
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