Endless rows of bowed heads and the jerky writing movement of the arms.
Restless prowling teachers and useless sputtering fans.
The swift glides of pen onto paper and a dull ache in your wrist for writing too much, too fast.
IC at the top right corner of your table and a swill from your water bottle every now and than.
Clammy sticky feeling and heavy heat.
Tell me how is this familiar.
I'll give you a hint,
it starts with an O.
Taken from Eils,
"parents don't understand PW
especially when you tell them, you have to do much for PW..."
Never has a truer line been said. Sentiment shared completely, Eils. This might be due to the fact that I'm up now at 4 plus in the morning, trying to edit my group's written report, and that I am hungry cranky and cold. To top it off, I'm ill and it feels like mad stampede is running through my head. And all my mother could come up with is,
"Siao, do project also need to do until so late, waste my electicity. Project only ma, not like its your exams."
Mothers render you speechless sometimes.
I would've argued with her, but that would only waste my time and this bitch of a report needs to be submitted about five hours from now. And seeing how she is my mother, I would never have won my argument anyway. What's the point?
Enough said, back to work.
My apartment rests on the ninth floor and we share it with three other apartments. The one in front of mine is always locked and dusty, the daily newspapers accumulating on the doorstep until one fine day when the busboy finally gave up and stopped distributing any to that particular gate. Two other apartment lies on the opposite side, us and them seperated by the elevators. Each has a couple of kids, and i'm ashamed to say i'm not certain how many. But what I know is that the apartment the same side as ours has a small boy, not over the age of five. And the other houses a young girl, i'm guessing around six or seven. And these two young ones seem to share a special relationship. (:
Every noon, both of them lug their collection of toys to their respective gates and sit there for hours, yelling cheerfully across to each other, showing off new toys and envying each others'. Their laughters often heard, and distance regardless, they frequently role-played their toys in their many skits and fantasies. I've heard the cowboy one, the air-stewardess one and the batman fighting spiderman one already. The girl often teaches the younger boy the philosophies of life, of how you should always pick the M&Ms in the brown packaging because it contains more than the ones in yellow, and how Winnie the pooh is in reality, Bugs Bunny's long-lost cousin. The boy always listens, enraptured, but often adding in his two cents enthusiastically. This fun lasts for a couple of hours, before their nannies come, nagging at them to take their naps and ending this special playtime for the both of them.
Soon when they both enter primary schools, grow up abit, and make new friends, this little moment they share will be lost, fading into a very very vague memory, and soon, in their teenage years, they will probably forget that they ever knew each other the way they did before, as childhood memories are often the sweetest yet the most fleeting.
If this blog was an object, solid and tangible, it would be a notebook, filled with rantings and musings about this quirky thing called life. But it won't be one of those looseleaf notebooks with scribbles and random jots, the pages dog-eared and the cover slightly tattered, the very portrayal of a notebook well-loved by its owner. No, it would resemble more of a glossy hardcover notebook, with perfectly creased pages, the entries logged inside not any lesser, but just neater, and more organized. Every sentence was carefully thought out and structured, full stops and commars where they should be. You can almost visualize the writer biting on her pen, pondering hard before merticulously penning down the next sentence.
No, this blog does not contain those heartfelt words that gushes out of your mind and onto paper, the thoughts went through a filter and processing, before turning into indelible ink.
And now, the once gleaming notebook will be covered by a layer of dust, left in negligence by her owner. Left in a corner of the room, untouched.
For now, the owner would just like to blow off the dust, settle the book on her lap, snuggle into a comfortable position and flip through the past. Its not really time for a new entry, she feels. At the moment, all she feels like doing is to turn those pages and recollect those memories that are not completely forgotten, but merely fading into the background.
In her book, there's always time for nostalgia.
