Amsterdam

Amsterdam meets me at the glass, and the glass feels like a confession booth. The city leans in close, as if it has something to say and wants to be certain I hear it.

There is a shout of a sign in the window, one of those bold promises that asks for attention. It calls out for quotes instead of coffee, and it lands like a dare. A small invitation to choose language first, to reach for meaning before comfort.

Light washes over the street with a softness that makes everything feel slower. People pass. Faces blur. Cars breathe. Somewhere nearby, a kettle releases a quiet sigh that carries the weight of a forgotten prayer. The city keeps moving while the moment holds still.

I notice the small rebellion in choosing words over caffeine. There is a particular hunger in it, a desire for a line that cracks open the day and changes its shape. It feels physical, like the body recognising a need before the mind can name it.

This is appetite. A grin between sips that says: make something honest and let it steam on the tongue. The sign is loud, yet the moment stays gentle, held together by reflection and breath and the ordinary rhythm of a morning.

I think about all the lives crossing this pane of glass. How many stories move past without pausing, and how many of us borrow courage from reflections. Sometimes the mirror gives us permission to see ourselves as someone capable of more.

Today, Amsterdam offers that permission. To want more. To be more. To love the mess and still find the lyric inside it. To keep choosing language as a way of meeting the world with open eyes.