I was never a difficult child. That was what my mom told me.
Now when I look back, I found it a bit hard to really recall any long period of intimacy with mom and dad. They were always busy—still are. I couldn’t really remember the last time I acted in a childishly wayward manner—as other kids naturally did. Well, the last thing I ever want in this world is getting my dear loved ones into trouble. Glad that I’ve been trying my best.
Don’t get it wrong, I am not complaining about anything. In fact, it’s all happy and content. Whenever left alone, I would always start to think and dream about everything I had read, heard, seen or been told. I love the time when I sat in a bookstore the whole day, flipping through every book whose colorful cover attracted me. I love the time when I huddled on the warm carpet near the big window in the afternoon, doing nothing but listening to the faraway sound of the piano played by some stranger whose name I never found out. I love the time when I cycled around the big garden in the sun and followed some pigeons to an unknown track, discovering small thickets of bamboo and an old swing.
I collected all those shining pieces and put them away deep in the softness of my heart, together with every hug and sweet mumbles from my loved ones. This is my little flower-bed.
And every day a flower blossoms in my heart.