h is for home (or house, take your pick.)

my home is a 4-room HDB flat, BTO, only 3 years old (nearing 4). its normal, average, and visitors would probably go to the extent of saying that it looks nice. for a first generation migrant’s house, its frankly fantastic. functionality practically dripping off the décor, muted furniture altering with years of lived-in. that’s me on paper. at first glance, its normalcy and averageness in all its unabashed glory, whispering “i promise i’ll be good in your country” just as my parents did when i was 2.

but my room. a shared room with all the hallmarks of adolescent angst and sleaze. idealized with dreams to decorate, defeated by laziness who seemingly always prevails. with carefully curated fabric (clothes) adorning all corners of the paint speckled floor and keepsakes, my own paradise of oddly political singlit (for a non-local) which would most certainly land me on ISD’s watchlist stacked in a corner. a traditional chinese self help novel my mother annotated in about being happy a number of years ago when she couldn’t possibly be more miserable now, gingerly hidden behind stacks of oscar wilde’s plays. a shrine-esque shelf for a hobby long destroyed by the virus and stacks of letters from the past. cherry on top being its cleanliness status a constant reflection of my state of mind at that point in time. of gifts, clearly not forgetting the shouting over online games at 3am and temporary passions, me.