How I wish I could speak mandarin, or proper malay, in this context. I would love to listen to the stories of these aged ladies and men.
Today, I approached an English speaking elderly woman.
She has a house.
Yet, she has no home.
Her daughter, whom she has fed and cared and loved in her own way locks her out of the house because she feels her mother is incapable of looking after it.
So she would sit at the void decks, every day from 7am to 5pm, to wait for her daughter to come back. And as she opens her soul to me, as she shares her stories, like most other stories, she reveals her life, her regrets, her choices – seemingly full of humanity’s most challenging problem – as she speaks of her sons and daughters and her own personal lifeline. There is regret, but there is no remorse.
She was completely absent of remorse.
It then seemed to me as if she has fully acknowledged her faults, limitations and choices. She was fully conscious of what she has been, and what she is now. In a way it was beautiful, touching even. There was a book that opened, forcing the writer to write – his mind chaotic and messy, and it closes with the writer fully aware of what has been written, and he submits to himself, allowing his fingers to finish with the flow – his heart, his mind and his fingers in complete harmony.
“How can I help her?” I ask myself. I want to help her, desperately.
There is a beautiful picture, one I have never truly attempted to paint in my mind. A picture, that I believe when expressed and shown, would resonate with the souls of humanity. In my mind, I seek a way to window this beautiful painting to her, to perhaps help her find a window to her own painting, but it seems she has seen it. She seemed to have seen her own painting.
So the question then, was, “Does she need help?”
I would cry at night when I close my eyes and allow myself to see my own painting. My fingers, still incapable of finding the right strokes. My eyes, still incapable of studying it’s texture. And I am in tears now as well, because the time has once again come when I wish I could show people my painting. But I cannot.
I have said far too much, and people are watching.