those days when my mom would come home excitedly with a new set of markers calling ‘Liiiiin! Look I bought you marker pens.’
Ah. Those were the days. Then they slowly morphed into door-slamming and regular exchange of tempers and hurt. Shouting, the colliding, the well-deserved slaps.
And now they have morphed into ghosts of slamming doors, echoes of vanished adolescent and maternal tears.
My oh my. I do wish, sometimes, that those days would come back. Those were days where you had freedom from yourself. Little decisions to make; they were made for you. Little burdens to bear; they bore them for you like their own.

Now I have all the freedom I wanted before, but it’s not as exhilarating as one would have assumed. It’s tiring and burdensome. You dread, more than ever, the impending freedom of adulthood. Bleak. Just bleak.

The memory is always distant, but so real — blurry, without any order. They are random and static, like a slideshow, yet they burn with clarity when they surface in the mind. Indulge myself in one, and I remember everything in exact detail. The feelings, the lighting, the texture of the floor, the air, the background hums and thuds. Time stops there, it seems, for after all, that one scene, that one action, is all I remember. I do not recall in sequence, and time freezes where the memory does. Perhaps that is what they mean by the beauty of the moment. When it has passed, you remember everything about it — except what happens before, and what happens after. And so the moment is flawlessly preserved in its eternity — there is no ending, there is no beginning. There is only that moment, saved from life’s usual irreversibility. It is for you to revisit when you need an ocassional escape from regret.”

I wrote this a long long time ago.

So I just felt like posting this up again.

And oh, looking through the old blog…how things have changed.

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