Moving out of my family home was an act of defiance.

It wasn’t targeted against my parents but against a previous version of myself.
My younger self was a slave to vanity and status, which was not unusual in a place like Singapore, but I had found my desperation especially irritating. Back then, it felt impossible to forgive myself. Everything felt nauseating and sweaty despite my giddy success.
And so five years ago - I locked my room; I ditched my things; and I left my home.
It was odd because so much of my identity felt abandoned in that bedroom. I was 8, then 13, 16, 21, 25. These different periods of my life, all coagulated together into one big clump, archived in this space.
In the past few years, whenever I visited my family home, I would confine myself to the dining table and kitchen. It felt safer to ground myself with aromas and textures of food, as compared to indulging in nostalgia.
I knew that stepping into my previous bedroom would be entering a blackhole of memories - opening one door would open three more. I hesitated at the prospect of tumbling through the rabbit hole.
Yet here I am, five years later. I feel clear headed, my lungs almost expansive. I gaze at the door differently from before. Today, I'm ready to turn the knob and find out what the bedroom holds.
Click on the Door to Enter