[ meMYSELF ]

.26||10||91.
NYPS, NYGH 106'04 206'05 307'06
hopelesslyhoping@gmail.com/ hoe.jia.wen@gmail.com
God
Music
Tolkien

[ wishDREAMS ]

-We shall see...

[ Archives ]

+May 2006+
+June 2006+
+July 2006+
+August 2006+
+September 2006+
+October 2006+
+November 2006+
+January 2007+
+February 2007+
+April 2007+
+May 2007+
+June 2007+
+September 2007+

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

I found a picture.

I found a picture: an old photograph. As much as a decade before can be considered 'old'.

I found a picture; an old photograph, laced with laughter and joy, coloured by a child's innocence, and printed with friendship. It was crisp and fresh, packed neatly into its place in the photo album, held down tightly and straightly by a thin sheet of plastic that clung on to the album. As I gingerly fingered it and slid it out of its holder, I found that it was yellowing with neglet, dog eared by loneliness and fading with distance.

I searched around the other photo albums, searching keenly for one that held even the slightest hint and resemblance of its 'before' state, a few days after the actual incident where the photo was taken, when it slid out of the printer, ink gleaming freshly.

I found none.

I did find, however, that despite the sheet of plastic that locks the photo in place, some things slip through; diffuse through that thin membrane.

I found that no matter how tightly we gripped onto those photos, to those times, all we really find tightly clenched in our fists is the bitter reality that no matter the technology, from black and white prints to coloured photographs to digital pictures, it cannot capture those moments at all accurately. That those days had gone forever, all the only semblance of them were small 4 by 6 pieces of glistening paper, cold and hard; and the thin wisps of memory that our brains clung onto. That everything else, the joy and the laughter, the pain and the sorrow, the love and the frienship, had faded beyond our vision. That no matter how hard we tried, we could not step on that picture and slip into that second, that minute, that hour, that day ten years ago. That now, everything was different; everyone was different.

We hold in our hearts, a longing for those days to come back again. For those days to reappear now, and to live those days whenever we wished to; whenever an aching for those moments to happen again strike us fully.

The closest we can get to transporting back a decade, is by the flappy, rectangular pieces of paper that we call photographs. But that, in reality, moves us back in time as much as we can hold on to a wisp of smoke, that, as I type, is already floating up to the Heavens.

Sometimes I flash back and remember New Year dinners, where our parents ate dinner and afterwards sat around and talked and laughed. They took a long time. Long to us, in any case, we the children to whom eight was bedtime, nine was the time barely reached, ten pm the time that seemed far off and distant, eleven an illusion, flambouyantly and proudly announced that we had actually stayed up until midnight, and 1 am to 5 am was something that the adults just made up.

We, in contrast, scrambled the food into our mouths, sitting out on the deck with little chairs and tables pushed together so we could all sit together. We chose chairs and cups, and those chairs and cups remained 'our own' every single time. Our cups and plates were plastic; even to hold a porcelain or glass plate was a dangerous moment. Would we drop it? Would we make it to the table safely? Between each course, we would either run off to watch TV or play computer games. It would have been incomplete without our jostling and giggling and laughter. After our dinner (the parents were still at their second course) we would disperse into two groups -- the boys playing computer games, and the girls pulling out barbie dolls, both groups two feet away from one another.

On occasions, we would put up plays or launch missions for and on the adults, headed by our most vivacous and bubbling with leadership skills friend. He was also the oldest, two years older than me. He was the oldest only by a few months, because my sister and two other friends were but a couple of months younger. Next came a boy one year younger, and me and two other boys two years younger. Two or three boys were a year and two younger respectively. Same group, with one or two variations, for eight or so years.

I remember sneaking around, holding poppers in our hands, stuffed into our pockets, as many as we could carry, hiding behind walls in pitch darkness. The hushed whispers and giggles and the sudden 'Where are you?'s, 'Where are we's, 'What should we do next?'s, 'Ready? On the count of 3's that popped up in the darkness. Our hearts pounding traitorously as we leaned against the wall, trying to avoid detection from the unsuspecting adults. The triumphant yells and dives toward the adults, now snuggled in the living rooms, pulling out our swords (ice cream sticks and cardboard strips), detonating our grenades (those strange packet things which fizzle and explode when squeezed), wearing our magnificant Arthurian capes (blankets) and yelling and undulating like Red Indians.

I remember the hysterical laughter when we tried desperately to act our plays, the adrenaline (though of courseI did not know it was called that) as we practised over and over again -- forgetting our 'lines', bumping into one another, in short, making a mess of everything.

As we grew older we became smarter. We used torches for spotlights, and bribed the adults into putting on a play for us as payment of our play. Our original props (dolls and toys and the like) expanded into things that we had quickly crafted an hour or so before -- boxes made out of ice-cream sticks, tissue paper messily glued with cotton wool as snow. We used music, and 'special efforts' courtesy of Mr. Bean (videos from various episodes that we showed briefly).

Then we grew up.

One family moved away, most of us broke apart as secondary school streamlined in, pushing and cracking through. Some of us remained close enough, but we were too old and wise for childish games. Dinners became solemn affairs, no seperate tables diffrentiating children and adults, mature and grown-up teenagers sitting at the table laughing and cracking adult jokes.' We no longer played games together, put on plays, bribed the adults, played war games or marvelled over the latest barbie whose legs could bend. That was, after all, childish affairs, and too immature for out experiences minds. We turned to mature subjects -- homework, teachers, juicy gossip.

In short, we grew up.

Slipping my pinky into a wishbone (from dinner's chicken), the sauce washed off, I make a wish. I shouldn't really. I don't believe in wishes anymore, after all.

But a thought slips into my head and finds its way onto the tip of my tongue, and I wish anyway.

I wish, silently of course, that we hadn't.

Hadn't grown up.

[ T-ray* ] blogged @ 8:11 AM