attacked

was walking to the lift when it hit me. like a sucker punch to the stomach. the feeling was so raw and strong that it hurts so deep. nostalgia. i remembered walking down the streets of orchard road with mum when i was in my teens, her doing her walkathon-shopping thing in her heels and me, without a care in the world, except broken hearts and infatuation. looking back, even the broken hearts felt good.

life is much better now, but perhaps that depends on the yardstick. material wise perhaps, but the innocence, the substance has vaporised. i still spend a lot of time with my mother nowadays, sitting around the kitchen preparing food or running errands. it is not the same anymore. gone is the light-heartedness, the abandonment of a carefree childhood. no pressure, no expectation, not a care for the irritating ticking of the clock. the heart was light, the mood zealous; tomorrow was another new day, so many things to look forward to. i looked on the good side of things, we looked on the good side of things. when did i start to focus so much on faults? when did my heart become so heavy?

was sitting in the kitchen, taking in the aroma of cooking in progress. it hit me again. this time it was the kitchen of my parents' old house. the house that i grew up in. by comparison, the one that i am sitting now is much more glamorous, much more 'fashionably exciting' but i yearn to step back into that old kitchen, if only for one more time. that kitchen that i can remember ever so clearly, every crook and cranny. i know that is impossible; it no longer exists but in my mind. but the memories of my youth in that kitchen is so strong today that it almost makes me want to cry. cry for a time past that cannot be captured in my palms again. never ever again.

why are memories of things past always so perfect?