When I was younger I wrote a poem about tangerine dreams that filled the sky, and this one lemon tree atop a hill where lovers liked to meet. When I was younger still, but old enough to know, I filled several blank sheets back-to-back with an essay on the circle of life, having just watched The Lion King for the first time. When I was even younger, while walking in a mall with my family in Hong Kong, our humid stopover before reaching our new life Down Under, I lamented (rather melodramatically for a nine-year-old) on palm-sized paper that I was to depart my Motherland and be separated from her forevermore. I think I meant that I was leaving my old life and old self behind and that nothing will ever be the same again, but this crystalline revelation eluded me then.
In my teens I found my words and the words of others found me. Diving into texts that suited my melancholic taste my proclivity for nostalgia and tragedy flourished alongside a yearning for romance, fortunately this led me to feel understood by certain fictional characters, songs, and artists; unfortunately this meant I was a hardcore Twilight fan. In my twenties, having bade Edward and his night-creeping ways goodbye, my taste in literature improved—I wish I could say the same for the recipients of my romantic attachment, most of whom are dead or fictional, all of whom are psychologically troubled. Romanticising their ‘brokenness’, I once again pointed the finger at time but also at space: both were guilty of separating me from my beloved. Impractical delusions aside, I guess you could say time has always had a way with me, whether I was clinging to the past (thus allowing it to seep into the present), chronicling the present for future remembrance (turning present into past), or fearing the future (which drags it ominously into the present). Sometimes, walking the same path that I used to walk when in high school, I am stopped by the almost material presence of my younger, uniform-clad self, full certain and radiant with achievement, walking towards and past me to where I (we) used to live.
Whenever reality melts into reverie in this way I am caught speechless by the desire to communicate in some way with the phantom of my younger self, to advise, to instruct, to warn. But I know she won’t listen, so I let her go and walk on, older and wearier than I was a few step ago. Is ageing a mourning song or am I simply the saddest songstress in this show? I wish there was some way, reader, for you to feel the dull weight of nostalgia, elephantine against my chest. And I wish I was simply nostalgic for my own past, but I am too for the collective past of humanity—it stirs at the sound of old music, the sight of old movies, faded signs, abandoned factories.
Just the other day, while visiting an old house down the road, I longed to linger and marvel at its remarkably well-kept vintage interior, at the grand ceiling detail and the chandelier attached to it, at the rich garnet, emerald, and gold design that ran along the walls of the hallway, at the gated, once-roaring fireplace, even at the colourful tiles I giddily tread; but, alas, I was running an errand and therefore in no position to dilly-dally—even dreamers require employment in the real world. This is rather unfortunate given how good I will be as Professional Daydreamer, paid to spin invisible yarn, yearning for what was or could be, then realising precisely that in my head.
On that particular day I longed to press my forehead cheek ear palms against the wall, connect with the spiritual remnants of those who once dwelled there, tune in to their thoughts and feelings; in return I’d nod, whisper my own fears and insecurities, maybe even shed a tear. I longed also to run my fingers along the wall as I made my way dreamily down the hall, eyes wondering up and down all the details today’s simplistic interiors lack, but sensing rather than seeing. ‘All this time, you remained unchanged,’ I’d say to the house that stood stoically for a century as life shook all those who sought shelter under its roof. I’d be a whole lot happier if I was half as stable, but bricks and mortar aren’t easily moved and I live to be moved.
There is a carpark opposite my apartment, and a grassy plot of yet-to-be-developed land beyond it. The houses had been torn down many years ago, and for a while it seemed I was doomed to face an ugly patch of soil and debris whenever I stood on my balcony and gazed down. Ungifted at natural science, I deemed the land infertile. Nothing will ever grow on such a barren piece of land, I thought. Nature, she who wields the wind and rain, thought otherwise. So did the Australian sun. Slowly but surely, patches of grass began to grow. Soon, it had covered the whole fenced-off, apartment-sized square. Then, miraculously, trees started growing. Over a year later, these trees are still small, barely taller than your typical shrub, but they are thriving. And sometimes, flowers bloom on trees, don’t they? Yay or nay, this knowledge is to play a part in the hilarious incident I am about to relate to you; its partner in crime is my terribly shortsighted vision. One day, when brushing my just-washed hair while standing on the balcony sans glasses, I noticed that big, bright orange flowers had appeared on one of the trees, unbeknownst to me until then (or so I thought). I was delighted, but thought little of it once I reentered my living room and became preoccupied with the humdrum chores of daily life. I had forgotten all about those ‘orange flowers’, and would have went on believing that they were indeed what I thought they were — made of petals, pollen and seeds — if I never saw them clearly, with my glasses on. This is precisely what happened yesterday. Exhausted from the glow of my laptop screen and the rigidness of my chair, I decided some fresh air would be good and stepped out to the balcony. I took a deep breath, looked at the clear sky above, the church buildings on the side, and the grassy land in front with the growing trees, one of which is bearing flowe–wait. Hold on a second, it can’t be—is that what I think it is, filling the gaps between the leaves from where I stand? A discarded, corrugated iron-looking piece of orange construction thing lying right behind the tree in question? In a way that makes it look like orange flowers on the tree because parts of it are hidden by the tree’s leaves and others, blossom-sized parts, not? Yes, my corrected eyes and common sense said, yes of course it is, you daft. You mistook an ugly, manmade thing for nature, said the melodramatic overthinker in me. What’s more, it continued, the object is used to construct buildings, which destroy nature. How ironic. How wonderful though, to have mistaken such a thing for nature’s work of beauty, gushed hope. The writer in me began typing.
