There's a certain sadness in watching life settle into a routine that feels more like a slow march than a dance. For many people, the pattern is the same every day: work, home, eat, and sleep. For many, this is more than a habit; it is a strategy to exist in a society that demands a lot and leaves little room for slowing down. But I can't help but ask if survival is the same as living.
This is how I used to live my life before the kids arrived. The paychecks and benefits of working were good, but everything felt empty and useless. Despite performing well at work, I was often depressed and miserable. From the outside, I appeared to be successful, even thriving, but on the inside, I was crumbling beneath the weight of a life that felt detached from anything genuinely meaningful. I worked long hours, met every goal, and received every bonus, but there was an emptiness I couldn't escape.
A picture from aeons ago while still living a rat race.
I had always found solace in writing and drawing. I began writing as a child, filling notebooks with poems and stories, and the habit lasted well into my early adulthood. I desperately wanted to be a writer, but there didn't appear to be a literary tradition in Sarawak, or even Malaysia in general, at least not in the way I was used to, which was based on Western literature. This was long before the Internet and globalization transformed the world, allowing creatives to pursue their aspirations. Back then, the concept of making a livelihood from writing or art seemed unachievable, like chasing a shadow. So I put it aside, believing myself it was a foolish dream.
Somewhere, buried behind the weight of our obligations and daily distractions, were remnants of those early dreams. Dreams that once blazed brilliantly, free of doubt or pragmatism. What happens to that fire as we get older? Is it fully extinguished, or is it just buried beneath layers of commitments and the soft sedation of screens and routines?
Perhaps this is a quiet resignation. We're taught from an early age that magic belongs to children, that creativity is frivolous, and that poetry doesn't pay the bills. These messages get ingrained in our minds, molding the decisions we make, until one day we wake up to discover that the dreams we once held dear have become distant memories, like things we reminisce about but no longer pursue.
I wrote two sappy poems at the age of 15, two of many. They were so cringey.
For me, the cost of surrender has been great. Whenever I wrote or drew, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was wasting my time and should be doing something "productive," like learning new skills to make more money. Writing, which once gave me life, has become a source of shame, as if pursuing creativity is an indulgence that I cannot afford. That internal battle left me feeling hollow, divorced from the part of myself that gave life meaning.
The hunger for meaning, for beauty, is a stubborn thing. It refuses to go away, no matter how hard we attempt to repress it. It can manifest as a brief sense of restlessness or dissatisfaction with the routine. Sometimes it takes the form of a wistful look at an old notebook, an incomplete drawing, or a dusty guitar in the corner. It speaks to us in moments of silence, reminding us of who we were before the world taught us who we should be.
I found inspiration to continue practicing creativity in my life when my daughter was two years old. This occurred many years after I had ceased writing and creating art. She was obsessed with crayons and would spend a lot of time scribbling on paper. I wanted to connect with her, so I began drawing and eventually learned to draw realistic portraits several years later. That simple act of creating with her reawakened something in me—a sense of wonder and connection that I had long forgotten. It reminded me that creativity does not have to be huge to be valuable; it simply needs space to exist.
But recovering that part of ourselves seems overwhelming, doesn't it? Fear holds us back: fear of failure, of venturing outside the comforts of the familiar, and of being judged. And then there's exhaustion—the type that comes from devoting so much of ourselves to work, family, and the demands of a never-ending system that we have little left for our own goals. In many respects, sticking to a routine makes things easier; it allows you to keep moving forward even if the path feels empty.
However, I feel there is hope. The flame doesn't require much to light up; all it requires is a spark. A moment of inspiration. An unexpected connection occurred. These sparks remind us that it is still possible to bring wonder back into our lives, even in the most ordinary of ways.
Recent freewriting.
Reclaiming that magic does not require us to forsake our responsibilities. It means setting aside even a fraction of time for the activities that make our hearts sing. Taking up that old notebook and penning down a single line of poetry is one such activity. Sitting beneath the night sky, gazing at the stars and realizing that we are a part of something great and wonderful. It means allowing ourselves to dream, even if just for a moment. As for me, now that my children are older, I can finally focus on what I enjoy most: drawing and writing.
These are the moments that matter. They are what transforms survival into living. They remind us that life is more than a series of tasks to be completed; it is an experience to be enjoyed. The magic may be hidden, but it never fully disappears. And as long as we're willing to search for and nurture it, we can keep that fire burning.
That's it for now. If you read this far, thank you. I appreciate it so much! Kindly give me a follow if you like my content. I mostly write about making art, writing, life musings, and our mundane yet charming family life here in Klang Valley, Malaysia.
Note: All images used belong to me unless stated otherwise.
