I am twenty-one. A lot of changes has happened since I was last aware. For example, I’m now looking around a room with popcorn-colored walls instead of pink. I’m attached to a white Macbook instead of that big, gray, desktop planted by a wall- with rough, yellow-stained keys- the first contraption of my early writing days. Today there’s an absence in my house since death took Coskee away, and its strange, but I miss her smell. Its not a dog-smell that is offensive, but a quiet dog-smell, something that I can continually take in and feel comfort.
I have curls in my hair instead of a cropped bob. I’ve read Sartre, Duras and books like Catch-22, whose narrative proved difficult to follow, and I had felt less than inspired to continue but I did anyway. Fall out Boy, Relient K and Panic! At the Disco though not belonging in the song of my fifteen year old days, I still keep in a special place in my heart reserved for days where I return to fifteen.
I feel strange. Because while I’ve stopped living with my head in the clouds, I long to return. I’m still dealing with all of the new ‘grown up’ realism, with an old approach. When I curl my hair, I pretend with full imagination and British accent that I’m in a Victorian-styled era. I’m listening to Georgia On My Mind and letting myself be transported to the sixties of Civil Rights liberation, pecan pies and my black brothers and sisters. What this Malaysian- Chinese girl is doing in that suburban town in the South of the United States I have no idea, but I also never let myself question that lest my happiness be broken. When I was traveling much throughout last year, I was still walking in the eyes of the characters I first read about in story books, seeing what they saw, smelling, and touching what they felt. Then when I think about all my old friends, I still remember them as children in the garden, on that old tire swing with great long lalangs scratching our calves.
So really, I haven’t changed at all. Though so much has happened to me, I’m still that child. A child who pays bills, drives and makes decisions for herself and her family. Things at home has shifted, I’m talking to my parents like adults, and they to me. But there’s a balance still being founded in me still needing them, wanting them, to be parents, and them letting me be an “adult”.
Recently, I’ve been really bored, because the big moments in my life has happened and I find myself waiting for the next big thing. Of course that next big thing- graduation, is also happening in a few months, so I’ve stopped wanting “big things” to happen.
So its good that I’m by myself for awhile. I really don’t mind nothing happening in my life, if the world would only stop telling me what I lack, and all that I have to do in order to be fulfilled, happy, and to have “a great life”. The difference is I already know I do have a great life without doing “things” that would get me there.
Also, the moment big things stopped happening in my life, was the moment little things started taking on more significance.
Its like how in a quiet room, you’re suddenly aware of the sound of the whirring fan. On normal days, when I’m too busy to think, I hardly notice these things. But suddenly now, my heart grows tender for stories of people living lives less-than-fine, the reason why blind men make beautiful music, greater than the likes of those with sight– things I would have normally missed by being caught up in frustration.
Then a song like “Youths” by Daughter comes along, and it mixes in with the hot sun, and all of a sudden I’m gripped with a longing to return to the seaside. Then thoughts turn to the Old Man and the Sea. . .
I also noticed, I’ve not written like this in a really long time. I miss writing for myself, I’m glad I’m bored enough today to be able to do this.
A going to consume an entire marble cake by herself.