my home is a salad of half baked education and hopes and middle class mundanity. inborn bravery and ignorance and buried insanity. corroding kitchenwares. two floors of anchored workload and hanging playload. daily exchange of basic conversations. prayer rugs and beads and endless sermons on a 52 inch tv screen. remembrance of death and heaven and hell 24/7. it is clear which direction it is heading. my home is an island of contentment in the sea of bare, glass-walled concretes. my home is trying to prove that conservatism can blend with, or rather cannot be swayed by, the temptation of total freedom. my home is an epitome of clear familial division.

in this structure i try my best to spit more words onto papers, a stack of deadlines which now feel numb. what my father and i have in common. when the dry clean machine beeps i hurry downstairs and stare at its whiteness. what my mother and i have in common.

must i must i must i.

must. i get all the fabrics out. i fold the shirts and undergarments and mismatched socks in pink and orange and tosca and other colours that are not as cheery. frills and hard furs and fluorescent work uniform which resembles a giant one-piece pajama. i spread my brother's t-shirts in the air, letting the invisible splash to iron them out. i run my fingers through my father's shirts to reduce the creases. i hang my mother's house dresses with wire and plastic hangers by the window to invite the wind to come by and to comb them clean.

beneath all this we all are tired. of convincing of preaching of trying to bridge this seemingly absymal gap. this inherent suburban stubbornness found in the family that might as well breed a tragedy. but there shall be a stopping to this. we are past the beginning of the end. now is the difficult part, the middle part, that is hiding a change of direction. children try to palm their true intentions while probing for a possible solid ground. they have directions in minds that often collide with their parents', the modernity that flowers in a conventional and wholesome family. they are afraid to be mistaken as being swayed by the promiscuous wind. but past the middle part in future these children hope to see a gleaming light of freedom that might not be as good as conventionality but they will face their death beds with no burden of regrets.

to this children hold on, to this children say there shall be no shame in changing.

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