My Rented Space

The sun is out. It's a lovely Friday. And I'm at home. Blasting tunes. Waiting for the laundry to get to the dryer cycle. Half and hour ago, I walked out with my basket of laundry. Plonked the detergent on top of the laundry since I needed two hands to carry the basket. When I walked to the door, the bottle of detergent toppled, spilling the blue gunk onto the dirty laundry, myself, my shoes and the floor. Gack! Which moron left the cover unscrewed?!? Hrrrm, wait I was probably the last one who used it, so the moron would be..... me... *grump* I had to rinse off the stuff from my shirt. The rest is still sitting on the floor and my jeans.

My hands are all wrinkly and tight. I suddenly thought of my mum's palms, wrinkled and cracked palms from hand-washing all our clothing these 20++ years. At least I haven't really been contributing much to the washload for the past 9++ years. Wow, has it already been almost 10 years? It feels so funny to think that I've been away from home for so long now. Granted, about 1/4 of those years were actually spent at home but those were like vacation periods. Kinda like taking a break from my real life and moving into a resort.

For many years, I've been lamanting that I don't even have my own room in my "former" home back in Malaysia. Even in the cold, prison-like hostel, I had my own inviolable space. Square feets that I could claim, albeit temporarily. I've become so used to having my space. But none of them really belonged to me. Even this apartment that I'm claiming for the third year in the row has a timer clicking in the background. When can I finally put down my suitcases and boxes and say "This is mine" with no irony in my tone?

Now Playing: Rest in Pieces by Saliva