I realised I've been far off from being personal nowadays. The blog's been talking so much about my trips, my Facebook is hardly updated, and don't even start on Twitter. It's probably cobwebbed by now. I have never been good with sharing personal information in a compact form, I feel naked. The idea of summarizing something personal or as close as what you're doing at the moment is usually odd and untimely for me.
Today, I'm going to share with you about my home.
When I reached home last two weeks ago, I had tons of ambitions to make the house a better place. I wanted to fix the cracks, wanted to clean the house spotless clean, to arrange some of the furniture here and there, mind you, all these alone. I told myself, it shouldn't be a problem. It would probably just take me a week to get most of the things done with the free time in my hands.
Boy was I wrong.
Cleaning up my room alone took me two weeks. Up till today, I'm still arranging some of the stuff in my room. Patching some things up, making sure some stuff are neatly folded here and there. And the amount of stuff my house holds is insane.
In the midst of cleaning up and piling all these memories in a big black plastic bag, I had a pang of nostalgia. All memories, both good, and bad. Especially those that happened at home, growing up, the rivalry with the siblings that will never seem to end, the constant struggle to hide things from mum. This house, with rags and scratches has hold so much memory and quite frankly, after nearly 30 years it only has aged so gracefully if any.
So I stopped. Peeped through my window and look at the big pots, small pots, the main square right infront of my house where I learned how to bike by myself, the spot where my rusty ol' tank was at where my brother and I used to compete over who can hang upside down the longest and then panicked when I began to turn pale, the mango tree that's been cut down where I used to climb, the guava tree where I used to sneakily steal from and greedily eat to myself, the writings behind my door back when I wanted to cheat my test papers with.
Then I realised, even if my house was full of junk, with tons of cracks and repainted at least two dozen times with little termites biting some of the parquets, I would still love it, and maybe just maybe I wouldn't change most of it aesthetically. It has brought so many good memories as it is. I believe, every good thing must come to an end, and this house has only but aged gracefully. That includes the unpainted back door which I think has Pendidikan Moral writings on it (why I wanted to cheat on Pendidikan Moral last time I will never know now), and with just plain weird pictures stuck all over it.
A home is where your heart is. But a house, where you grew up or mostly grew up in most of your life is a prized memory (of course in a physical form) close to your heart, that no new Semi Ds, studio apartment nor bachelor's pad can ever replace. This you know for a fact.
So I embraced the minor cuts and bruises my beautiful house has. I wouldn't change any of it should it not affect us directly and be dangerous to us. I loved it as it was and no less do I love it now :)
Love,
Jacqueline Rowena @ Jacqkie.
Today, I'm going to share with you about my home.
When I reached home last two weeks ago, I had tons of ambitions to make the house a better place. I wanted to fix the cracks, wanted to clean the house spotless clean, to arrange some of the furniture here and there, mind you, all these alone. I told myself, it shouldn't be a problem. It would probably just take me a week to get most of the things done with the free time in my hands.
Boy was I wrong.
Cleaning up my room alone took me two weeks. Up till today, I'm still arranging some of the stuff in my room. Patching some things up, making sure some stuff are neatly folded here and there. And the amount of stuff my house holds is insane.
In the midst of cleaning up and piling all these memories in a big black plastic bag, I had a pang of nostalgia. All memories, both good, and bad. Especially those that happened at home, growing up, the rivalry with the siblings that will never seem to end, the constant struggle to hide things from mum. This house, with rags and scratches has hold so much memory and quite frankly, after nearly 30 years it only has aged so gracefully if any.
So I stopped. Peeped through my window and look at the big pots, small pots, the main square right infront of my house where I learned how to bike by myself, the spot where my rusty ol' tank was at where my brother and I used to compete over who can hang upside down the longest and then panicked when I began to turn pale, the mango tree that's been cut down where I used to climb, the guava tree where I used to sneakily steal from and greedily eat to myself, the writings behind my door back when I wanted to cheat my test papers with.
Then I realised, even if my house was full of junk, with tons of cracks and repainted at least two dozen times with little termites biting some of the parquets, I would still love it, and maybe just maybe I wouldn't change most of it aesthetically. It has brought so many good memories as it is. I believe, every good thing must come to an end, and this house has only but aged gracefully. That includes the unpainted back door which I think has Pendidikan Moral writings on it (why I wanted to cheat on Pendidikan Moral last time I will never know now), and with just plain weird pictures stuck all over it.
A home is where your heart is. But a house, where you grew up or mostly grew up in most of your life is a prized memory (of course in a physical form) close to your heart, that no new Semi Ds, studio apartment nor bachelor's pad can ever replace. This you know for a fact.
So I embraced the minor cuts and bruises my beautiful house has. I wouldn't change any of it should it not affect us directly and be dangerous to us. I loved it as it was and no less do I love it now :)
Love,
Jacqueline Rowena @ Jacqkie.
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