In Continuum.

Broken Crayons

I think you know
Because it's old news
The people you love
Are hard to find
So I think if I
Were in your shoes
I would be kind

There are times when a certain object of the past comes back into your life like a pleasant surprise. Such encounters are what make spring cleaning just a little bit more interesting, and gives you that much motivation to clear out all the old items in your room and sort them out on the corridor. Once in a while, a ticket stub from the past, or a note you wrote to a friend of yours in class may roll out from a random drawer or cardboard box, and you ask yourself," When was the last time I saw you?" It is nice to visit the past every once in a while in such a manner, without actually being there but mentally, living that life all over again. To me, it happened last night when I stepped in my sister's bedroom, with large pieces of drawing paper sprawled all over the floor, almost becoming the carpet of the room altogether.

My sister is doing her designing degree this year, and working overnight just to complete a certain assignment or project is just part and parcel of things for her. She complains a lot, but she does so while trying to work out different designs for her work - pretty much like how I get through my own academic issues at home. Once in a while, she'd ask for my opinion on things and see what kind of solutions I can provide, and there have been cases whereby my ideas have been put to good use - which I am glad. This time around, my sister and I are co-operating on this project of hers, in which she has to raise environmental awareness amongst the children under ten years old. Neither of us are really experts of children these days, but we try our best to work around the problem. I wrote the introductory essay for her report, and I am also the self-proclaimed adviser to her designs. Last night wasn't a night for me to take a break from work, but a night to help her out in her own. And there I was, sitting on her bed with her blanket tucked before my chest when I recognized the familiar box that stuck out from under one of the A3 sized paper.

I look out for you
Come rain, come shine
What good does it do?
I guess I'm a toy that is broken
I guess we're just older now

I squatted down on the floor and lifted the paper that had scribblings of various designs of the superhero my sister intends to include in a full-length book. It was a box of crayons that I haven't seen in ages, with most of the crayons still pretty much intact, and the smell of them attacked my nostrils. Even my sister forgot where she found this long lost box of crayons from, but she told me that she needed crayons for her work and was reluctant to buy a new set. So somewhere in the depths of this house, she managed to dig out this little piece of my memory, from those early years in Singapore when the family desperately tried to fit in, amidst the novelty of things. I guess in a way, the box of crayon was the way my mother attempted to fit th two of us into the Singaporean way of life, and those thirty-six colors were more than just crayons, but a vessel that bridged two cultures in the past.

I remember when I first came to Singapore, everything was so familiar and different at the same time. I remember asking my mother why some people had darker skin, while some had even darker skin. My mother told me about the Malays, the Indians, and the Caucasians living in Singapore alongside the Chinese, and how Singapore is a multi-racial society unlike Taiwan. It was interesting to go through our everyday lives with people from every different country, and that was how I felt connected to this foreign land somehow. My childish mind told myself that there were so many people just like me, coming overseas from their homelands for their studies. That gave me no reason to be depressed about leaving my own friends, because everybody was doing the same. Of course, my mother never told me that most of them were born and raised in Singapore ever since their births, but she declined to tell me the truth because a little lie goes a long way, sometimes.

I want to stay
Another season
See summer upon
This sorry land
So don't dust off your gun
Without a reason
You understand

This is what my parents planned when we first came to Singapore. Have them come to Singapore right before the school starts, and they figured that mixing around with children at my age is going to help us fit in better. So they packed up their things in the early months of August seventeen years ago, and decided to come over to Singapore to make it in time for the new school term in September. You see, Taiwan follows the education system in America, and their school term usually begins in September rather than January. My parents found out about that only after we've moved our luggages into the new home, settled down and made some phone calls. It also translated to the fact that we had about three months of holiday before the new school term actually started, and that was when my mother decided that they should do something about their two children.

So my parents sent the both of us to drawing classes, organized by the community centers nearby our homes. I remember the first day of stepping into the community center, situated next to the Serangoon bus interchange today. Back in those days, that area was where the people of the neighborhood gathered, and the drawing class which my mother signed my sister and I up for was merely the tip of the iceberg. There were calculus classes, English classes, maths classes, dance classes, piano classes, violin classes, and pretty much anything that can be taught by a human to the other. I joined the drawing class, probably because my sister was good at drawing. To me, I was never too good with the paint brush, and my sister was the polar opposite of me, the child prodigy who wielded the brush like a brave warrior would wield the sword on the battlefields with much gallantry. As a child, I was better at lying on the carpet with my toys, and imagining story lines that involved those toys of mine. Imagination was my only weapon, and I was a child with little talent beyond the boundaries of my mind.

I look out for you
Come rain, come shine
What good does it do?
I guess I'm a toy that is broken
I guess we're just older now

We were given a topic every week at the drawing classes, and most of the children around us were accompanied by their parents. I don't remember my parents being there most of the time, but that didn't stop us from enjoying the classes - well, at least my sister enjoyed it immensely. I remember one of the topic of the class was the zoo, and having just been to the local zoo a few weeks ago, my sister got down and dirty with the paint and paintbrushes, while I pretty much just sat there for the whole time. The idea of getting my hands dirty with paint wasn't appealing, and I had no idea what a zoo should look like with all the animals inside. I had problems with the drawing topic, because I wanted all the animals in the picture at the same time - though it was wholly impossible. So I sat there with my eyes to the blank piece of drawing paper, imagining all the animals and the people visiting them, the imageries going beyond the four sides of the paper and all over the table.

While my sister painted ferociously on her own drawing paper, I watched the drops of paint twirled and swirled in the cup of clear tap water. They looked like cigarette smoke, dancing in the water as the nature beat its drums. That was when the instructor came to me and asked why I wasn't drawing anything on my paper, while my sister already had half the animal kingdom drawn. I told her that I was drawing it with my head, and she asked me to try using the box of crayons to draw an elephant, for starters. I remember that transparent bag of mine that I carried around with all the equipments inside. Everything from brushes of various sizes to a palette, and boxes of crayons and color pencils for us to kill time at home. So I took out the box of crayons that I had and started drawing my very first elephant, which resembled more like a dinosaur - since I was obsessed with those prehistoric animals. But then again, who could have blamed me for the atrocious efforts? I tried my very best with the elephant, all thanks to the box of crayons that my mother bought for me. And armed with those, I managed to get through the days before school started, and made 'Getting Used To' a lot easier to bear.

Who says the river can't leave its waters?
Who says you walk in a line?
Who says the city change its borders?
Who says you're mine?

Today, the box of crayons remain pretty much intact. Some of the colors are broken in the middle, and some colors are obviously missing from the collection. But it is quite a wonder how time failed to take away the smell in the box, with the familiarity still pretty much in existence. I guess most of the equipments in that transparent bag of mine have been thrown away over the years, leaving just the crayons for me to savor on the past. Then again, who knows? One day, I might stumble upon an old set of color pencils, or a palette still stained by the paint of the distant past. Anything could happen with such old items, even if we are speaking of time traveling in your mind. Drawing wasn't my thing, and still isn't really my thing till this day. My imaginations materialized into words, taking my talents to a whole new different level. But I guess I should never forget my roots, how it all began with a drawing class and an instructor who asked me to draw an elephant that turned out to look like a dinosaur.

I guess the next time when spring cleaning comes around, I might be a little more enthusiastic about things. Who knows which part of your past the time machine might decide to take you to? I suppose, there is a time for growing up in every person, and there is a time for leaving the past behind. The point is to always appreciate and treasure the past, making the best out of the present, and leaving everything else to the future. We can't help if we are going to grow older, but we still have the ability to tear a little over our past, even if it is just an old box of broken crayons.