Back to moving. So far as I remember, I have moved house four times. The first to the third times I couldn't recall being of any significant help. And by significant I mean that I didn't help moving large household utilities or furniture or any objects physically. I was weak then, okay?
The first time my family moved from our second floor apartment, an old two-story concrete building, to the seventh floor of my childhood memories, I was about six or seven or so. I didn't know how I got there. My mom said I had asked her repeatedly about where I was, and when could I go home, the home that we were moving away from. I have no memory of that, and of course I had little memory of my childhood as well.
Time passed, I was in my boyhood when we moved from a small, unimportant village in the Mainland to Hong Kong. We settled in a room no more that ten short steps that my grandfather rented. I think we hadn't brought anything with us except money and health. And I bet it was the easiest moving process anyone could imagine.
Then we moved again, when I was still a junior in secondary school. This time we moved to an apartment just next door. As you could probably imagine, we were living in a small room with a lot of scattered tiny clusters. Maybe I had helped in moving the computer, but other things, nah, I don't remember. For about six years I stayed there, but it was time to move again.
Only this time I have grown up, and our home have so many stuff collected over the years that I was busy organizing them into boxes for so many days. And then there was this harsh condition we had to comply--move everything away, which means we have to clear out everything. So besides moving, I was also dumping aging furniture to the landfill. They were all of second hand that my family received from some relative or found abandoned on the street. So throwing them away now didn't seem to be wasteful at all. We have prolonged their life as being useful.
Anyway, In about three days we have moved everything, fortunately the distance was just a street away and going down the slope, so the transporting by hand and carts was very smooth and relatively hassle-free. Even though there were times when I accidentally cut or injured myself unaware. The scars are still here, especially the one on my right wrist, which is very close to the spring of my life. Luckily it was a shallow cut and didn't slice through the soft tissue, or else I wouldn't be writing right now.
I just want to express my feeling about moving. It's a lot of work, work that would wear one down, and bring back buried memories. I have always been a guy who hates clusters, I don't need too many stuff in my life because I know I don't necessarily need them. Clothes, shoes, junk foods, electronics. Just simply ask yourself, what is enough?
We want things, I want things. But we are not restricted to ownership of things we don't have. Moving doesn't mean losing the past, or getting the future. Moving is more like controlling the present, and start living, adapting in a different environment, have a different perspective, a brand new view.
Now I have got a view of the trees and the buildings surrounding me, whereas before I had only the road and street and city's noise. I really should treasure the view I have now, because I still haven't glance away from where I am.
As with writing, I have been thinking, drafting ideas, nothing concrete yet. I have three unfinished long story and they desperately need rewriting and a stronger, more sensitive story, and relatable characters.
I find my writing different than what was in my brain. When I write, I can think and play the scene inside my head like a film, but when it comes out in word-form, it just changed. It offers none of the pleasure reading gave me, or the visual that exist in films. Maybe I focused too much on the environment, the description that I dismissed ideas and story development. Or maybe I relied too much on short, no-ending story practices, that I ignored the important aspect in writing.
Words matters. So long, battery is at 2%.
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