Belonging to myself The sun was shining through the Venetian blinds, forming lines of warmth and security. I sat limply in my rocking arm chair and allowed it to gently rock me.
The only sound that permeated through the room was the melodic wave crashing outside. I glanced around my beach house, its contents radiating a sense of Joy. In spite of its simplicity, It has been my home for almost eighty years. As I sat in my armchair, I thought about the past; when I first migrated from Singapore to Australia when I was only a kid.I vividly remember when I attended my first school, the students would Judge me because of my nationality and my distinct accent.
They would point and laugh, but the only thing I could do was escape and cry. I was a mice coerced into the dark corner, unable to retaliate because I was small and different. Thinking about it now makes me pity them and myself ever more for not knowing how to find solace within myself. A few years had crawled by and still the torments is ongoing. The bullying worsened.In class, I was too frightened to speak out whilst at mom, Mother and Father are also under racial pressure at work, so there was no point in asking them.
I sought help from teacher but the attempts were fruitless as no one took me seriously. At that time, I realized to what extent I had to go to in order to feel a sense of belonging. I had to build myself a sanctuary, a home in my heart, a place where I could belong.
When the final years of high school passed, I could not be more contented. At the age of seventeen, I began my career as a professional painter, something that I was good at and aspired to be.With a little bit of creativity ND luck, my paintings were recognized by a local museum and I was able to make a living from it. Soon enough, I saved up enough money to purchase a land on the North Coast where I designed and ultimately construct my own home on it.
Through my home, I was able to ease the pain and began to feel happiness, which was rare feat for me. I was able to use my home and block out the past, block out all the derogatory remarks of everyone and everything. I was able to reconstruct my scarred life.Over the years, the museum were still impressed by my work and continually bought them. Even my house seemed like an art studio itself.
On the walls hung visual and eclectic paintings, ones that I felt were too personal for public display. As I sat in my chair, glancing around the room. I felt a surge of satisfaction and accomplishment; the home I have constructed in my mind has become reality. But a sinking feeling swept over me, when I notice there were no photographs. I stood up with great effort and with the aid of my trusty walking stick, I staggered towards the window facing the street.I peered through the blind to see couples and families in liqueurs, walking up and down, arm in arm, without noticing someone watching over them.
I thought to myself, "should I be envious? ". They seemed so ecstatic knowing that they have each other, and all I had was my lone self. I gave the question a long and hard thought. After what seemed like an eternity, I smiled to myself. I knew the answer.
I did not need anyone or anything to make me feel special. I Just needed myself. The home in my heart in the real world was sufficient for me. I stumbled back into my rocking chair and allowed it to rock me to sleep. "The greatest thing in the
