Room With a Memory.

Rear on this stiff brown chair, tips of my fingers tap tap tapping away on the keyboard of a pink Samsung. The artificial-coldness of the air conditioner had somehow found it’s way through the strands of my damp hair, making it impossibly strangly as they flowed around each other, hugging with obvious desire for one another.

I sighed. Not for the annoyance given to me by my once-neat-now-messed-up hair, but for the difference of our lego-like house here and the cozy house we have in Malaysia.

Oh my, comparing the two houses was a bit unfair as they were different as Lays Potato Chips and Simply 7’s are, but nonetheless, compare I shall.

I could just picture the mini tropical forest grown entirely by my father, a botany loving man whom had taken care and planted many many different plants over the course of 15 years of living there; his infatuation for exotic South East Asian fruits were known to visitors as there were an abundance of tall rambutan and durian trees all over the green.

Stepping into the house… Oh glory. A long Iran-based carpet awaits for our familiar feet to softly rub on it, the usual Borders and maybe even a couple of Cold Stone plastic bags bang against our tired legs which would shortly be lying on the long camo green couch, digging into the bags, holding out the bought item – usually books – and repetitively groan at the ones we regretted handing our money out for – or the ones we didn’t and that are left behind in the shelves.

A typical night after a shopping trip. Sighs.

Book discussions would break out, wrappers with sticky prices stuck permanently on them would fly and land dramatically on the fluffy cream coloured carpet while yells from my dear mother would be heard from our (poor) Indian neighbour and we would hastily grabbed the plastics and run to the nearest garbage bin. The books and magazines and comics would all be displayed for all the world to see on the clear coffee table in front of the legendary green couch ( 😉 ). As days, weeks and months pass by as fast as a hair flip would last, a mountain of literary devices would pile up, and the table would soon disappear before our eyes.

Forgotten.

Oh how I love thee, living room.

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