when i was young, everything was bigger than life. the christmas tree, the (now) tiny lane in our old backyard, bank counters and light switches. then those irritating, curious questions that a child would ask. why is drinking pool water bad? why can't i pee in the pool/bath/standing up? why why why...??
now that i've grown, and everything else had shrunk. i don't have to stand on a chair to put that fairy on the top of the tree, nor do i have the need to jump like a monkey to turn the lights on and off. It's alright ma'am I'm capable of doing just that myself, thankyouverymuch. smiling awkwardly, we part, probably to meet again in the many years to come.
then why do i like those days?
those days. everything delights me. tremendously. like washing dishes or turning keys in the locks or a new mechanical pencil my friend had gotten. tadpoles caught in homemade nets. floating origami boats carrying messages down the longkang of my old house, hoping for someone to reply, more preferably the shy gnomes and fairies that Enid Blython writes about. we weren't embarassed by our own bodies, and its 'bloopers'. that quality of not giving a rat's ass to what people think of you. unmolded by society. like how uplifting it was to help someone in need, without doubts or hesitation.
[now, sometimes, in buses or trains, i don't know how to specifically give someone my seat. what i do is i stand up, rather than to bear the guilt of sitting comfortably when many are on their feet.]
sometimes i look at my parents. just looking. just wondering.
they were young once too. Or still are.
the cheeky glint in her eyes when with friends, reminising old times, teasing, or complaining about boring old men.
the glazed look when he remembers his heydays of kungfu, lion-dancing and flourescent bellbottoms. The happy raucous jokes when yumcha-ing with friends, chugging beers by the cartons.
there has to be regrets deep in their hearts, something that would never be told to their children. a juicy secret kept like exquisite expired chocolates in a hidden box. at the height of emotional distress, we'd may be allowed a tiny glimpse of that secret, but it's usually garbled or too short and vague to be pieced together into a tangible story. then when they are quiet. radiating invisible ladened aura, swelling up a certain discomforted feeling of acknowledging a presense you shouldn't.
an aftermath of a bittersweet memory?
i'm growing older. my parents are no longer mom and dad. instead they are morphing into something more complex, more disturbing yet beautiful. at least, in my eyes.
is it normal to start identifying that they are human beings?
or was i late again to realise that?
another weird thought from a sleepy hippo.
bite them bed bugs right?