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the great divide
Sep. 21st, 2010 02:03 amRecently, my father dug up some old videos from the recesses of cobwebbed shelves. In them, I was a fat little toddler taking her first steps unevenly and clumsily. It feels surreal sitting on the sofa watching myself, while my siblings and parents reminisced about the time when I was adorable and did nothing but adorable things. Like constantly badgering people for milk, going down steps by sliding down one stair at a time and not being able to sit up straight because I was a roly poly ball of chubbiness. I wonder when did it all start to go wrong. Back then, I was a clean slate, brimming with potential and unrealised expectations. I was infinite, I was endless, I could go on to be anything. And I had everything while growing up, a fact that I am eternally grateful for. Why did I turn out like this, despite the opportunities I have had? I wonder if my parents feel pangs of disappointment when they see me settled in for the long haul before the computer. In a way, I am toxic debt, sub-prime mortgage loans, and look, I can't even make relevant jokes about current affairs anymore, because I haven't been reading about the world. Thousands of tuition money for me to blaze through dramas about mythical foxes and folklore? I must be crazy; I am crazy. All I have to my name is an amalgamation of carefully cultured interests and insignificant commitments. My father has bloodshot eyes due to a persistent lack of sleep. My mother has appointments with the chiropractor to soothe her neck-aches. My grandmother sighs gently whenever she sees mud-encrusted boots.
I don't remember this long and often enough.
I don't remember this long and often enough.
