odds n' ends
どこでもいいよ
Someone once told me that whenever they purchased tickets to a place, they always had to book tickets away from that place, as if they did not belong anywhere, and this made them a little sad. I remember only halfheartedly consoling them at the time.
If strictly going by number of years, I’d suppose the place I belong to would be the fourth brick establishment two avenues away from a busy train station, one partially obscured by a fifty-year-old oak. Upon entering, one would first notice the striking smell of some melange of herbs and ancient roots, a scent that seems to cling to me even now. Whenever I return to the house, it was as if I was revisiting some earlier period in time. The walls of my room, in particular, are still adorned with watercolors, oils, and old concert posters from 2010. That was when my family first purchased the place, and as an eager sixth grader, I resolved then to make my room the very best that a child could ever own. It was an open exhibition of all my favorite things: the souvenir model of the first ship that sailed around the globe, a brass pocket watch with hands that rotated counterclockwise, a wonky paperweight of the Milky Way. Yet as I grew older and these things gradually changed, I never really bothered with redecorating. And so, the past stuck to me like an adhesive, a cute little bandaid that is simultaneously endearing and uncomfortably restrictive. I think about tearing it off my skin, how much pain it would cause and how liberating it could be. I think about how, in ten year’s time, I would like to buy a house with high ceilings near the sea. Not the kind next to busy beaches, but a more modest abode isolated enough that it is still socially acceptable to be a little aloof with family, yet one still fairly close to a local grocery to be convenient. A nice place where I can, at regular intervals, remind myself to redecorate minimally. I touched chubby infant fingers today, and was reminded of the first time I held someone else’s hand. It was a cold, sticky sensation, like trying to catch eel barehanded on a winter’s day. I locked eyes with her, curious about her input on the topic, yet her large, black irises reflected nothing in particular.
The second time was like the houseplant I kept, a small, quiet creature. It was a little gullible, so I would occasionally rotate its pot just to see how it would find the sun again. It was the perfect confidant, and I loved how picky it was about my singing: at the slight off-key note, its leaves would curl up in distaste, and at some point, this was the funniest thing in the world to me. But on some days, I can’t figure out the right medium to describe these thoughts with. Something feels off, yet I have too much pride to scrap my own creations. And so I layer the attempts, first impossibly delicately, then hastily so. I call the final opus beautiful for its imperfection—isn’t this just the excuse everyone else uses? |
Authora little cynical & tired Archives
July 2019
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