Markus Anecdotes-The light was… too correct

Written with photos curated by Markus

The light was… too correct

The day began so correctly that I knew something was wrong.

Not dramatically wrong, not the kind of wrong that announces itself with broken alarms or late trains or a sky leaking sideways rain, but a quiet, polished kind of wrong, like a room that has been cleaned too thoroughly, where even the air seems arranged. I woke up before my alarm, which already felt suspicious. I lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the alarm to go off anyway, just to prove that time was still behaving normally. It didn’t. The silence held.

The light coming through the curtains was soft and balanced, not aggressively bright, not apologetically grey. Just… right. As if someone had adjusted a dimmer switch for the entire country overnight and then forgotten to tell anyone. No harsh edges, no dramatic shadows. Even the color of the light felt intentional, like it had been approved.

For a moment I didn’t move. I listened.

In my house, silence is never complete. There are always small sounds layered under everything else: a cat jumping off a chair with more force than necessary, a dog shifting and sighing like it has had a long and difficult life, claws clicking lightly on the floor, the faint rustle of someone exploring something they are not supposed to explore. And eventually, inevitably, someone decides that 6:30 is a perfectly reasonable time to demand breakfast with the urgency of a crisis.

But that morning, nothing.

No movement. No negotiation. No complaints.

I turned my head slowly, carefully, as if sudden motion might break whatever strange condition had settled over the room. For a brief second, I had the ridiculous thought that they might all be sitting up, watching me, waiting.

Instead, they were simply there, scattered across the room in positions that looked… composed.

Even they had agreed to behave.

One cat was curled into a perfect circle, tail wrapped neatly, as if posing for an illustration titled “Cat.” Another lay stretched out along the edge of the bed, but not in her usual dramatic way where she occupies exactly the space I need to stand. Even the one who normally believes that gravity is optional and objects are suggestions was still.

The dogs were no better. Or worse. One lay with his head on his paws, eyes half-closed, breathing slow and steady, not even opening one eye to check if I was awake. The other, who usually reacts to any sign of life like a small, furry emergency alarm, remained still, as if conserving energy for something that might never happen.

It was deeply unsettling.

“Okay,” I said out loud, because silence like that demands commentary. “This is not normal.”

No one objected. No one even blinked in a meaningful way.

I sat up slowly. Normally, this is the moment when everything starts. A chain reaction. Someone hears movement, someone else interprets that as feeding time, someone knocks something off a surface, and within seconds the entire house is awake whether it wants to be or not.

Nothing happened.

They remained calm, dignified, almost… professional.

I swung my legs off the bed and stood up, waiting for at least one protest. One complaint. One reminder that I do not live in a perfectly controlled environment.

Still nothing.

That was when I understood that today was not a day to trust.

But I also understood something else. If the world was going to behave perfectly, I wanted to see how far it would go. There is a certain curiosity that comes with perfection. You don’t immediately reject it. You test it. Carefully.

In the bathroom, even the mirror seemed cooperative. I looked at myself and, for a moment, thought I looked more composed than usual. Less rushed. Less mid-thought. I brushed my teeth without pacing, without checking my phone, without thinking about three other things at the same time. It felt unnatural, but also… efficient.

That word stayed with me.

Efficient.

Standing there, holding a toothbrush and staring at a version of myself that seemed slightly too aligned with everything, I made a decision.

Today, I would not question it.

Today, I would cooperate.

Today, I would become perfectly aligned with everything around me. No overthinking, no unnecessary movement, no disruption. If the day wanted to be efficient, orderly, and quietly flawless, then I would become the most efficient, orderly, quietly flawless version of myself.

I would become, for one day, completely Dutch.

This sounds simple. It is not.

I have tried, in small ways, before. To be more structured. To be less reactive. To trust systems instead of questioning them. It usually lasts somewhere between five minutes and half a day, depending on how many unexpected variables appear.

But that morning felt different. The world itself seemed committed. It felt only fair to meet it halfway.

I got dressed without changing my mind three times. I chose clothes once and accepted the choice, which is already a significant behavioral shift. I made coffee without spilling a single drop, without absentmindedly leaving something open or forgetting what I was doing halfway through.

I checked the time once and trusted it.

Instead of checking again thirty seconds later.

No wind. That alone felt suspicious.

When I stepped outside, the air confirmed everything.

No wind.

In the Netherlands, this is not just unusual, it is suspicious. The trees stood still, leaves resting instead of negotiating with invisible forces. No sudden gusts trying to rearrange your hair, your thoughts, your plans. The sky was a soft, undecided blue, not trying to impress anyone.

My walk to the station is five minutes. Usually, those five minutes are functional. I move through them as part of a larger system that gets me from one place to another. But that morning, the five minutes expanded.

I slowed down, not deliberately, but because there was suddenly more to notice.

Everything moved… but nothing interrupted.

A neighbor was adjusting his trash bins so they aligned perfectly with the edge of the pavement. He stepped back slightly, observed them, then moved one just a few centimeters to the left. Not enough to be obvious, but enough to be correct. He nodded once, satisfied.

Another neighbor walked her bicycle beside her instead of riding it, because the path was just narrow enough that riding might inconvenience someone else. She did not look annoyed about this. It was simply the appropriate thing to do.

A cyclist approached from behind. I heard the soft click of gears before I saw him. He slowed slightly as he passed, leaving exactly the right amount of space, not too close, not exaggeratedly far. No bell, no urgency. Just adjustment.

People moved around each other like a quiet choreography. No collisions. No hesitation. No unnecessary interaction.

No one spoke.

Not in a cold way, not in a distant way, but in a way that suggested speech was unnecessary. Everything was already understood.

I tried to match it.

I adjusted my pace so I didn’t overtake too quickly or lag behind. I kept my face neutral, not unfriendly, not expressive. I resisted the urge to check my phone, to fill the silence with distraction.

At the crossing, everyone stopped exactly where they were supposed to stop. No leaning forward. No testing the timing. When the light changed, everyone moved, not rushed, not slow, just precisely on cue.

I followed.

At the station, the platform felt like an extension of the same logic. People stood where they needed to stand, leaving just enough space for others. Not too much, not too little.

The train arrived on time.

Not almost on time. Not close enough. Exactly on time.

Doors opened in front of the people who had positioned themselves correctly, as if the system had quietly acknowledged their cooperation.

I stepped inside and found a seat without hesitation. This alone felt like a success.

The carriage was quiet. People looked at their phones, out the window, or at nothing in particular. No loud calls. No sudden laughter. No unpredictable movement.

I sat down and tried to become part of it.

For a few minutes, it worked.

Then my thoughts began.

Why is everyone so calm? How does no one sneeze loudly? Is there a training course for this? What happens if I suddenly stand up and spin around?

I did not spin around.

Instead, I watched.

A man across from me turned a page in his book with deliberate care. Someone further down opened a container of food quietly, as if aware that sound carries. A woman adjusted her scarf slightly, then stopped moving completely.

Everything was contained.

I decided to test it.

Small experiments.

When the train stopped, I stood slightly earlier than necessary. The person next to me adjusted subtly, making space without comment.

On the platform, I slowed down just enough to disrupt the flow. People moved around me smoothly, recalibrating without friction.

I smiled at someone.

This felt like a major intervention.

The person made brief eye contact, gave a small nod, and continued. Not rejection. Not enthusiasm. Just acknowledgment.

The system did not break.

It absorbed me.

That was the most interesting part. I had expected resistance, or at least some visible reaction. But instead, everything adjusted quietly, efficiently, restoring balance without needing to correct me.

It was like walking into water and expecting a splash, only to find that the surface simply opens and closes around you.

As the train moved again, my thoughts drifted.

I thought about a different kind of morning, years ago, where silence meant something was wrong. Where noise was constant, where mornings began with movement, responsibility, unpredictability. Where nothing aligned itself unless someone actively forced it to.

I thought about Singapore, where efficiency also exists, but it feels different. More visible. More structured in a way that announces itself. Systems there are clear, defined, sometimes strict in a way that reminds you they are there.

And here, everything works because it does not need to announce itself.

Control can be loud.

Control can also be silent.

By the time I returned home, the light had shifted slightly, but not dramatically. Still balanced. Still careful.

I opened the door.

For a moment, the same unnatural calm greeted me.

Then one cat ran past me at full speed for absolutely no reason.

One of the dogs decided that my arrival was the most exciting event of the century and began spinning in tight circles, knocking into a chair.

Something fell.

I don’t even know what it was. It simply fell, as things should.

I stood there, keys still in my hand, and felt something settle back into place.

“Ah,” I said. “There you are.”

One cat jumped onto the table, looked directly at me, and knocked a pen onto the floor with deliberate precision.

Not by accident.

By choice.

I bent down to pick it up. The dog tried to help, which made it more difficult. Another cat inserted herself into the situation for no clear reason.

And suddenly, everything felt real again.

Not perfect.

But alive.