Stories, memories

As I grow older I tend to think of my childhood more; the houses I lived in, the people I met, things I did, my family. I feel quite old when I reminisce about the past, I wonder if my mom does it too, once in a while. I always loved listening to my grandmother tell us stories about her past, just as much as I loved it when my mom recounted tales of her childhood. Sometimes bits and pieces, like copper-coloured film negative would appear in my mind, sometimes these memories present themselves in real colours, just a bit blur like old pictures kept in our photo albums. Playing with my cousins, jumping in a blow-up padding pool, the red tub that I insisted taking baths in until I grew too big for it -I wonder if my mom still remembers that plastic tub-, memories of my grandma, mom, maid making rice balls for me because I wouldn’t eat rice unless it was rolled into those tiny, round shapes; I think of that and a lot more, now and again. There are days when time passes by too slowly, but looking back,it doesn’t really. It’s the only continuous and steady thing you can rely on, it never stops, never slows down. It makes me sad. We’re saying goodbye to everything we start, every day is the beginning of an end, nothing is immortal and lasts forever. I hate goodbyes.

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