sometimes, i sense myself spilling
my youth from a fragile glass jar.
other times, i conclude it's just me storing
up for frantic spending in its decaying days.
but mostly, my duties occupy the space -
this intangible commodity squeezes for place.
such metaphors would have been absurd and
bizzare to the shrieking children of the kampong days
my grandparents talked about: climbing trees that rusted
with rambutans, ankles dipped in mud burgeoning with
self-invented games, a bedlam of clucking chickens fleeing
unsuccessfully, dinner for a hut bursting with extended family.
nothing i can identify with: neither a similar event, nor
a familiar atmosphere of wild abandonment of youth.
i exist in a time where parents knock on rooms to bring their
students nutritious chicken essence, with a stack of expectations.
what's so good about progress: when our roots are saliva-speak,
when our youth and beyond are spent before it's expiry?
much like acclimatisation, i am ashamed to reveal that,
many times i can feel alive only when i adhere to the routines in
this city of expectations.
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 5:02 AM UTC
sometimes, i sense myself spilling
my youth from a fragile glass jar.
other times, i conclude it's just me storing
up for frantic spending in its decaying days.
but mostly, my duties occupy the space -
this intangible commodity squeezes for place.
such metaphors would have been absurd and
bizzare to the shrieking children of the kampong days
my grandparents talked about: climbing trees that rusted
with rambutans, ankles dipped in mud burgeoning with
self-invented games, a bedlam of clucking chickens fleeing
unsuccessfully, dinner for a hut bursting with extended family.
nothing i can identify with: neither a similar event, nor
a familiar atmosphere of wild abandonment of youth.
i exist in a time where parents knock on rooms to bring their
students nutritious chicken essence, with a stack of expectations.
what's so good about progress: when our roots are saliva-speak,
when our youth and beyond are spent before it's expiry?
much like acclimatisation, i am ashamed to reveal that,
many times i can feel alive only when i adhere to the routines in
this city of expectations.
A kampong is - as best as I can describe it - a little village community, which are mostly a thing of the past in Singapore.
Request permission to use this poem