9:00 p.m.

My time.

The world starts to quiet down—dishes are done, the house is soft with shadows, and the hum of the day fades away. This is when I slip into something invisible: myself.

In the background, smooth jazz plays from an online radio—just soft enough to make silence feel alive. It’s not music for dancing or singing. It’s music that lets the words inside me find their rhythm. Every evening, this quiet soundtrack becomes the space where my thoughts begin to breathe.

This hour doesn’t belong to work, to chores, to anyone else’s needs. It belongs to me. Not for scrolling, not for running errands in my mind, but for writing. Creating. Reflecting.

This is when my notebooks open. When blank pages stop being blank. Stories, ideas, memories, little reflections—they all arrive without knocking, carried in by the gentle saxophone and a bit of courage. Sometimes it’s a sentence. Sometimes it’s a storm of thoughts. But always, it’s mine.

I don’t need a perfect desk or a perfect plan. Just this small window of time, a cup of tea maybe, and a little belief that words still matter. That they heal, they connect, they stay.

So if you’re reading this late at night, and your day has already given you everything or taken everything—know that you still have this moment. Just for you.

Your time. To be, to breathe, to write, or to dream.

And if you’re like me… I’ll meet you there. Somewhere between a melody and a memory.

GK