Finding Space

The worst thing about coming home (for good) is finding space for the things you brought back. I am saying this obviously from experience.

I had thrown out most of my lecture notes and gave away my heftiest possessions. And yet when my five boxes of stuff arrived from Perth, they looked out of place. I wondered: Where should I put them? The space in my home has been occupied by my old things - books, magazines, little knick-knacks accumulated since forever. And it seems almost impossible to fit newer things into the existing landscape of my house.

In a similar fashion, I need the space for my emotions and experiences I brought back. I cannot explain it well, but something has fundamentally changed since I went off to study four years ago. I want to exert my independence, but I am afraid. I want to voice my opinions, but I fear judgment. I am still my parents' daughter, yet I want to be my own person.

My parents have expectations on what each person should aspire to achieve in life - family and ambition. I try to challenge that.

"I will only leave this world in peace once I have seen each of my children settled down with their own family."

"But what if I don't want to get married and have kids?"

"Everyone should strive to climb to the very top in the organisation they work in."

"Not everyone has the same goals as you."

It is not that I want to be confrontational. I just want them to pay attention to me, for once. People change. We all go away and come back with new baggage - both physical and emotional. I need space for the things I brought back with me. I need space for myself.

But where do I fit in this jigsaw puzzle of a place I still called home?

2013 new year resolutions

I thought making up NYR is futile. But I really want to change something this year, even just a little bit. To aspire to be something, is human. This is my rough list:

• Do not be judgmental - towards myself or anyone else. Words can hurt. I myself had been hurt in this way in 2012, and had hurt others as well. I do not want to use words as an armour, as a dagger. 
• Strive to be a good pharmacist. Although I have started this on the wrong foot (so wrong that I do not wish to elaborate), I will do my best. 
• Read as much as I can, at least one novel per month. I have finally picked up reading again in 2012. I hope to maintain this habit. 

There you go. I think as the year plods along, more things will be added to my NYR. 

What about your list? 

The last to go was the bed.

Their bed.

As the moving workers lifted it off the linoleum floor, he stole a final glance at the bed once intimately shared, now avoided like a plague. Would it end up in the dumps? Or would it be burned in flames?

As if memories could be removed that easily.

He stood up and thanked the strangers as he closed the door behind them. He turned around and paused and took in the image of the apartment before him. Huge, white and empty.

He lay down on the floor, eyes transfixed on the ceiling. No, it is not empty. It was filled with ghosts. Of broken promises and dreams. Of themselves cooking and kissing in the kitchen. Of themselves cuddled together on the sofa, watching a movie on a rainy Saturday night. Of her leaning against the windowsill with a faraway look in her dark brown eyes.

He knew then that it was the beginning of the end. But he could not let her go.

His bitter laugh reverberated throughout the living room. Even right now he was the one picking up the pieces, instead of her. He fisted his shirt in the spot where his heart was. And he was lost in that endless white ceiling.

Suddenly he realised he had unknowingly watched the whole apartment changed from shades of white to gold and orange.

Shit. He quickly stood up to his feet. And he closed the door behind him for one last time.

The last to go was him.