For even mothers pray and admit to God that they are not all powerful, and only He can take care of the children they love so much.

In the 6th year of my blog, the things running through my head are less metaphors and words. I seemingly suffer from a lack of words.

There are more images in my head than words. I do learn new words, but they're words I find to describe what I want. Like kurta, a kind of long indian tunic which I am wanting to get.

I think about kitchens. I go to the shower and pause just for a minute looking at the brown cabinets and think about how brown is not my most favourite colour. I think about white modern kitchen cabinets instead. In images, not words.

Sorta like this:



I wonder if the same bright freshness can be attained with lacquered white doors - it would provide a bit more shine too - more brightness. The image looks good. I think about the purpose of a kitchen, how it would be busy, with people coming in, opening cabinet doors. I see fingerprints on the lacquered doors... not that good.

I think about what might be fun and interesting, yet still provides versatility. I think about glass doors, with metal sides (on the sides, not front for as seamless a look as possible). Bright solid coloured paper stick to the inside of the glass doors might then allow me to have white, blue, red, purple, green, yellow cabinets almost any time I want! If I was feeling extra fancy I can even put patterned paper in! Frosting the glass with frost film might add an extra dimension to it.

....

In a way, I can't wait to get my own house. Not a big one, a small one because living in a small space forces you to be more creative with what you have, rather than filling up space with stuff. And I guess I wouldn't like to clean that much.

Yet in a way, all these are fairly strange thoughts for a person just 19.

And even stranger, that the girl who loves writing is suddenly more interested in the way things look.

I blame moving house and being allowed to choose the colour for our room walls for such a change.

Still, the thoughts stay. (I am so itching to change the wall colour in my room.. back to white.)

And with it comes a bunch of other changes. The eye that has been looking at so many rooms now looks at clothes. Wonders about colour combinations.

Sometimes I can't tell if this change is good or bad. Maybe it is slightly flippant. And frivolous.

But is it really that bad to want things to be pretty?

6 years can change a person, a lot. 6 years ago I was in secondary school.

I always thought it was a beautiful school. Symmetrical, and ordered, pleasing to the eye, classical and traditional.

I loved the clear blue sky against our pink and red brick, the soft greys that enveloped our school, the pops of light blue in our classroom chairs, the fact that we did so many memorable things - the longest popiah record, etc. Lots of youth fairs, lots and lots of them. I remember how the building needed a facelift, and we were allowed to participated in the choosing of paint colours. I remember the bright pink sample that was so bold.

And I remember how nearly most of us wanted the same soft grey, the quiet serenity and peace that typified our school so well.

I remember, sitting at the garden benches outside the staff room, and then standing up, moving to the windows to see rain fall down, silver-grey.

I remember, being safe, and encouraged.

I remember feeling.

Secondary school days seemed to bring out the quieter side of us, the one that thought deeper. Not about problems, not about how to manage this, handle that, not about how to split an entire event into small manageable tasks that you can then get different people to do. But feelings, life, friendships...

Finding your own voice. Nuances.

I remember being less pragmatic.

I remember loving writing.

Today the memory is of your bag. You're special. You carry a bag, a black high sierra in the past, a tan army haversack with a guard badge on it now. You are proud of that badge - you've earned it. There is always this slight tone where you point out how other people are not a real guard but have a guard badge.

But that's not the point. You carry a bag, which is precious. How do I explain it?

You know, when walking on the streets, you'll see all the couples together? The lady, nearly always, always, have a bag - a small handbag, or a huge bag she's toting around. The guy? A wallet in his pocket and nothing else? Or look at married couples. Where does my Dad puts his bible? In my Mom's bag. Where's his water bottle? In the tote bag Mom carries around. Mom always has 2 bags, and Dad...

Dad carries his car keys I guess.

You carry a bag. And you carry my bag, when it's not too girly. And sometimes, even when it's girly. Or offer to take some of my items. I guess it's just me, influenced by my backache and all, but there's something extremely precious about you carrying my bag. Offering to take my load, easing my load, making my load lighter. (Free from backache!) And I love you for that.

War be like cosmetic.
Its bold mascara adding a glow to eyes
except it be a vacant glow,

Its gruesome bloody sights
scattered around the battleground
detached arms and thighs
like make-up brushes
applying powder or blush
highlighting hollow cheeks

because, lately,
it is fashionable,
to have slight hollow cheeks,
and to be thin from a loss of appetite
(because dead mutilated bodies are a gruesome sight)
looking as though,
one will break
any moment.