Old

Working at my parents' shop has both its pro and cons, but more of those for other posts. i just finished Jack Kerouac's 'On the road'. i dig it. the book is old, the life it described is old. the slang is old.

my hairstyle, reminiscent of a flattop, or a buzz cut, coupled with polo tee, made me look too old. people came, stopped, ask me if i had just finished my National Service. yesterday, it was still me and my supposed poly life. i look old, old, old.

today, a girl came into the shop. a warm summer breeze, uplifting, fresh, sweet. she smiled, she passed me her receipt. i took it, and began rummaging through the countless other bags looking for her bag. i found it, i handed it to her. she smiled. she glanced at me, she chirped, "thanks, bye!". it felt good. i felt good.
it was love, love, love. i want love. i want security, i want an anchor through life's many storms. i am old, old, century old.

after that, i sat outside, reading 'On the Road', observing people going by. a kindly Malay old lady dropped by while on her marketing routine, a maid and granddaughter in tow. granddaughter was a dear, helping her grandmother, assisting in translating, for i knew naught Malay. i attended to them, they finished their purchase. they walked off. into the distance they went, fading into the distance. i am reminded of the many elderly folk i have encountered in my childhood years around the area. i felt sad, i empathized, they are old, time has been robbed off them.
i am reminded again, of why i believed strongly in community work, in helping them, in big government, so these people have a better chance of survival in the urban jungle. they are old, so will we. i fear.