To C, C For Charlotte:
I wonder how many years have passed since the last time we have the courage to pick up our phone and dial in the specific combinations of numbers to speak. Lost count, indeed. How many spikes of bravery have fluctuate and nailed down by seemingly endless of solving daily duties, large or minor. Duties as an 18 years old child, duties as a classmate of Science stream class, duties of a poker-faced tuition student, of an attentive meeting listener, of a dutiful brother, of a respectful friend. Sometime, someday, cycles of fate will exhale its last ounce of rotation and stop dead, refusal of dragging behind the clock’s hand. There’s when we flash back upon our past-doings, recall our unwise decisions and regret of our shallow contribution. Don’t you think so, C?
I have no specific reason to write this, C. In fact, I can’t clasp any of those general introductions to begin with. Refer to those recommended writing guidelines printed in textbooks or internet webpage disgusted me. Left a sour aftertaste on my tongue bud when I realised everyone will copy and paste the same formats. Well, C, you can treat this as a pathetic 18 years-old teenage who knows nothing but to waste time on jotting down lines of boredom and uncertainty of direction, if you insist a reason. Not every single teenage will do this, C. Better pick up your pen and illustrate your thoughts rather than clicking mouse and tapping keyboard to gain the highest score, that’s what I say to myself while attempting to lawn my sentences smoothly.
At this point, you must be starting to get irritated, “shoot the bull eye” Westerners said. Fine, I get straight to the point. Remember your old mansion? (Not really a mansion, I know. Might be a mansion to you?) We used to playing photographing around it. (At that time, what we meant by “photographing” is just posing in front of the scene and formed a rectangular shape with both our index fingers and thumbs connected to the opposite hand)If you descend down into the underground burrow, you can watch earthworms tunnelling under the soil, ants stock checking newest food supply, and with luck, you may stare face to face with a senior mole. Your eyes will never stop tracing the cobweb-like roads which expand in a fascinating progress daily. How about roots then, you might ask. Further, deeper, I might answer. Roots are growing too, but much slower compared to tunnels infested by underground creatures. Newly sprouted roots and woody aged roots inter-crossed, twisted into branches of channels to suck nutrients and water from earth. These are scenes which deserved a corner of your sepia memory, I reminded myself.
Did you recall any? Or you simply denied their existence? Nevertheless, time changes, so does surroundings. They are all gone. Too cliché? That little utopia of yours (fine, a mansion then) had been covered up and stamped flat by steel monsters of industrial empire. Trees torn down, flocks of birds fled, rubbishes deposited, commercial building erected, fences and cement protected. I often failed to recover my feelings when I stand by its concrete barrier, peeing with the corner of my shorts pulled up when I am 9 years old. Still too young? No, not that long to find out. 1 fine day you will snap your fingers and strings all together, equipped with an ignited bulb above your head. Find what? You will ask. Further, deeper, I might answer.
Sincerely, A, for Apple.