As we sat down at the grassy patch where Blk 25 Owen Road once stood, I began thinking of my childhood. Others have such a rich story to tell, but I can’t say the same. My life has been the same throughout, I realized. I’ve never moved houses, never explored a different area, everything has been so constant in my life. I am so familiar with this small neighborhood I’ve lived in. The trees are in the exact same spot as they were 15 years ago, I’ve watched them grow from a small shoot to a large blossoming tree. The playground was always filled with life, but now not so much. I guess everyone has grown up like me. I began to look at the building next to Blk 25 Owen Road. It looked so fascinating. I would have loved to live in a house like that. Though old and worn, it would be a house I’d be proud to call home.
The apartment I would love to call home
The apartment is a rectangular block, with a triangular wedge cutting out the second level at an angle, leaving behind an irregular shape. Its walls, once pristine white, are now messy with grey and brown– perhaps someone took two gigantic pieces of chalk, one grey, one brown, and ran them horizontally down the expanse of the building.
Three square windows sit along the front of the building, each one with a different personality. One decides to flaunt recently washed laundry, the proudly hanging traditional red floral Cheongsam hinting about the identity of its residents. An air of melancholy surrounds the adjacent window as it tries to hide tattered brown curtains behind its grey tinted glass. The last window is filled with life as an elderly woman donning light pink pajamas dotted with butterflies pushes its rusty hinges open and leans on the ledge, staring out and watching the busy morning scene of busy cars travelling to and fro, eager for a breath of fresh air.
Pipes run along the front side of the building, rusty and old, reaching all the way to the top where wavy tin boards form a humble roof. Between the ends of the pipe and the start of the roof, a seed nestles itself in a crevice. It grows as the years pass, intertwining itself with the concrete walls, forming chips in the paint where the roots lie, revealing the smooth layers of beige beneath the white paint. This plant gently adorns the building like a garland. It may not be visible from the front, but if you walk slightly to the right, however, you will see its hard wooden stems reaching deep into the walls, a crack makes way for its bulging roots. Perhaps it has decided to reserve its more unruly nature for the lesser seen. However, this plant blurs the lines between nature and man-made structures, blending the building and itself into one surreal piece of art.
A bulky Panasonic air-con exhaust unit sits beside its untamed roots, its fan spinning with no haste, expelling streams of warm air. Just diagonally in front of the exhaust unit, a miniature black cylindrical lamppost sits, no taller than the average person. A tired maroon bicycle leans, firmly chained to the lamppost, yearning for freedom. Beside the bicycle, a messy mop, head filled with leaves, is carelessly chucked to the side and forgotten.
"Forgotten"- A Writing Journey 