i was flipping through the old photographs in a room. quiet and empty, i set myself comfortable on the old wooden floor and started to look closely at the details of these washed out film photographs. my finger reached out to trace the still representation of my younger self. like collecting words, i recollected the memories from these old photographs. as i explore i could not help but to notice the layer of blue tint formed on it. i like these imperfect details because it added more depth to a story. these photographs vaguely reminded me so many stories and qualities i grew up forgetting. an excitement came along each of these treasure piece. it feels as if i'm unfolding someone else's stories, except it's not. the seemingly familiar characters in it doesn't always emerge, but then it's like childhood memories, i knew it had always lived at the back of my mind. my dad, he was a smart looking macho man with a firm body that defined his years of working as a construction crew. my mom couldn't be any prettier. she had big permed hair and carry a structured bag. i could certainly tell she is the kind of lady who knows everything about fashion in that era. my parents are two very different individuals. my dad is a man of imagination while my mom only speaks on facts. as a child, i had always wondered if i'll grow up becoming an artistic soul like my dad or a brainy lady like my mom. my brother, an adorable (back then) nerdy boy with glasses bigger than his face. i foresee he'll become the smarter one in the family, and he did. i was a naive girl who knows nothing except having a wild and growing obsession to discover the world.

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