The tiniest bit nostalgic

we can't always be prepared for the rain, but when it comes,
we ought to remember how to dance in it

Pasir Ris smells like Mondays, like sun, like picnics.
Feels like the beach, like early mornings when I should've been at school, like the only thing I can hold on to.
Corners that my body remembers to turn at, pavements that my feet find familiar.
The air tastes like breakfasts, like good starts, like waking up.

Pasir Ris rings with memories, echoes with the sound of my growing up, fills me with the ache of a phantom limb. It sings with the crunch of dried leaves underfoot, the quietness of the roads, the sound of marbles dropping against the floor.

It wraps me in familiarity, or it used to, until very recently- Thanks to the "upgrades", the "improvements", the destruction of what I now only have in pictures that will blur against the plastic of photo albums.

Pasir Ris smells like the cold gust of happiness, the crisp morning air,
the early evenings after the rain.
It feels like everything that I will ever need to walk away from, because of somebody else's decision. Feels like the quiet, during my quietest times. Feels like my toes, curled under blankets, Family-time on Sunday afternoons with fishballs and instant noodles.


I am often hollowed out and empty, searching for answers to questions I haved asked myself over and over again.


Pasir Ris tastes like tears, like the lightest blue that there is, like second chances. It breathes with the creak of swings that haven't been sat on in a while, the stories that I may or may not have told. It cries with the sound of running water, late night walks in the park,
comfort in the middle of a school week.

It washes me over with memories I cannot always remember making, the fear of not being able to let go quick enough, the idea that I am always floating and never quite safely rooted.


Pasir Ris smells like Mondays, like sun, like picnics.
Feels like the beach, like early mornings when I should've been at school, like the only thing I can hold on to.
Breathes with snippets of myself, aches with the knowing of how different things are,
finds its way under my skin and pumps itself into my veins.

And even as I piled into that pickup truck and pulled out of that carpark, I turned to look behind me.
Wondering when I'd be in touch, who would be the first to stop writing letters, and if it will still mean all the same things in just a few years.
And, after nearly four years, I find they still do mean all the same things to me.

Peace, calm, growing up, letting go.
Like journal entries at the end of the day, like tea and shortbread,

like life.