moving on.
People usually approach their 21st birthday in eager anticipation, for then they inherit their key to freedom. Adulthood. Technicalities. Free of any movie rating restrictions, to smoke, to drink without having to answer to anyone. Even though most will already have been doing the abovementioned for some years, the freedom of adulthood is understandably a joyous occasion to most people.
Unlike most people of this generation, I approach my 21st with a slightly sinking feeling. A heavy heart, so to speak. Somehow, I feel that the symbolic 21st does not feel that much different from the previous 20 birthdays. Yet, once you hit adulthood, there is the added responsibility. That's probably where the sullenness comes from. A fully grown adult with no income and living off his parents. It's probably a sense of unachievement, added to the feeling of powerlessness, just hanging in the limbo.
21 is an in-between age. The age where according to numbers, you've grown up, but in your heart, you're still struggling to adapt to the brave, idealistic new world of adulthood. You suddenly realise that with the freedom, comes the heavy weight of added pressure on your shoulders. At 21, a person is given a pair of wings to soar in the skies. But added to that pair of wings are a pair of iron shackles around the ankles. The wings are reduced from an object of freedom to mere display pieces(unless of course they are strong enough).
My 21st this year will also be spent in a new house, 2 bus stops down the road. I move in on my birthday(which makes it sort of symbolic), leaving the home where I spent 12 years of my life in. It might not seem much, but seeing as 12 is more than half of 21, it is for me, more than half my life. It is also where I have lived since "senior childhood", the age of 9. As such, I hold more memories of growing up here than anywhere else I have lived in. This is the place where I moved in as a curious, overweight kid, and am now moving out as a merely overweight adult. The tumultous(a gross exaggeration) years in between have all been spent in this little condominium unit, kept as tidy as possible(imagine living with 3 destructive young humans) by my mother and grandmother. Every scratch on the marble floor, a nick on the door, a hole in the wall, the numerous doodles and scribbles on the wall, is a story of my childhood, a feature film in their own right(in my eyes only). When the new owners of the flat move in, a fresh coat of paint will cover the story of my childhood, leaving it just under the surface of a thin, yet suffocating coat,never found on the face of this world again.
Tomorrow, I'll walk out of this unit for the last time and leave for camp. When it's time to go home, I'll go home to a brand new(to me) place, where I start my adult life. This time, when I move away, I don't just move away. I also have to move on.
justin.
from the front.
從前的日子多好。 怎麽都囘不去啊？
stuff.
You know something is not going well when at 3.35 in the morning, you are unable to sleep because your nose is all stuffed up and runny. Kind of like expressways in peak hour. The roads are all jammed up, but there's still the continuous inching forward of cars, which is kind of like how the mucus just slowly drips out. Then it all gets too much. You get up to make a hot drink, to try and clear the blockage. But something goes really, really wrong. The hot "drink" you made turns out to be Cream of Chicken, which is technically still a drink but not the kind you drink at approximately 4 in the morning, because it's just not logical to do so. Added to the hot drink is a breakfast platter consisted of 2 slices of bread slathered in butter, a sunny side up and 3 hot dogs. Hardly the cure for blocked nose. Furthermore, you have to wake up for camp in about 2 hours so right now, you're in a dilemma. Should you sleep or just stay awake for the 2 hours? Or should you just blog about this whole thing in a retarded and incoherent manner, which is kind of like what I'm doing right now, while the Cream of Chicken remains untouched because I don't really feel like drinking it anymore. And after I'm stuffed with all that food and drink, my nose hasn't cleared. My, my.
justin.
ah ha!
Chong sat smugly on his seat. To the rest of the world, the stool was merely a cheap, worn, red plastic stool. If one would even bother commenting on it, they would probably say it was unsightly, a blight in the picture. However, it fitted perfectly in the facility Chong was guarding. Chong was very proud of his job guarding the aforementioned facility, located far out in the Western fringe of the country. It was "classified", which made his job seem grand and important. His senior ranking amongst the lower class men also contributed to his overall self-important attitude.
A shadow loomed over the red stool. Chong turned his face upwards. It was not a pleasant sight. His face was pock-marked and square. Generally, if a survey was taken, grading the look of his face from 1-10, 1 being the lowest, he would probably score a solid -6billion. Not that hag was to know that. The shadow however, was quite repulsed, and reprimanded him for lounging around. Chong got up, not too happy about it, but forced a smile. "Yes Sir. I'll start now." He had a quota to fill for his job, and he was far from it. Now was the time to start.
In the distance, Chong spotted 2 lower ranked men walking towards him. Both were in their civilian attire, ready to go home after a hard days work. He eyed the man on the left, as he carried a bag. "Time to fill that quota. And I don't like his funny T-Shirt."
"Bag check," Chong announced in a conceited tone. The man handed over his bag. Chong rummaged through it. The bag was almost empty save an umbrella and a cap. Or was it? Chong was smarter than that. He unzipped the front compartment and lo and behold! 3 pieces of expired chewing gum. He knew it wasn't being smuggled, since it was already expired and put in full view. The man didn't even try to hide it. But he couldn't stand the T-shirt. What's with the circle? And he had to fill his quota for the day.
"AH HA! What is this I see? Trying to smuggle chewing gum eh? Please hand me your identification and sign here for verification." The man looked bored. "The nerve of him to belittle my job," Chong was genuinely offended. But he had the last laugh. The guy had filled his quota, which made him feel better. And he wasn't going to get away with smuggling contraband items in a classified camp. Chong felt his anger recede and his pride rise. He smiled a smug smile as he watched the back of T-shirt with a circle moving further and further away.
Twenty minutes later, Chong was getting ready to go home. He left the classified facility and walked along the path to the train station, still gloating about "his catch of the day". As he was floating on cloud nine in his own world, reality came crashing down onto him in the form of an unclosed drain cover. Chong had plunged his leg into it, falling over awkwardly. He tried to get up and walk away as fast as possible, regaining whatever dignity which had fallen into the drain along with him. A sharp pain shot up his right shin, which he realised wasn't in the best condition. He needed help.
"Hey! Can I get some help here?" A head turned back. The shirt looked familiar. Circle. The guy smiled at him politely as he walked away. Chong, helpless and dignity all but gone, could only look at the funny circle patterned T-shirt moving further and further away.
justin.
