my mum talks about her plants as if they are real people, real humans with needs.
she speaks in a guilty tone of how she feels sorry for them whenever some of them dries up, wilts, or turns yellow.
she remembers what they need and somehow they bloom faster in her hands.
she speaks of her plants so respectfully in such a good-natured way that sometimes even real humans aren’t as respectable as them.
my youngest brother treats anything art-related very passionately.
he’s into sewing multi-coloured beads onto old clothes now.
today he wore that shirt with those beads that he sewed.
my father treats anything art-related dispassionately.
he looks upon my youngest brother’s bead-sewing with a frown in such a disdainful way-
just like that time when i was younger with lots of As for my art and drawings but Bs for my maths.
i think it’s the same frown now, with extra wrinkles.
only at that time during my younger days it wasn’t just a frown.
it was a statement.
i like looking at my mum’s plants, but i don’t like looking after them.
i like my youngest brother’s enthusiasm in arts.
i’d like to think that my father hasn’t aged more than he should since my younger days.
i still have a secret love of arts even when i onced abandoned them for better math grades when i was younger.
i write what i feel.
if i don’t then i’ll feel bad for not telling it as it is.
there is no “spicing things up” as far as i know.
because i don’t know how to “spice things up” without feeling like a phony.
you know, like a liar,
because i live, i then write.
i don’t write to “officiate” my life.
i just live. and then i just write.