i was typing something in the computer last night when my mother got back from work and started to open up her bags and lay some foods. She sets them down and noticed a little scratch on the wooden dining table and said“tsk, tsk.. you guys are destroying this..” I let it pass. I mean, come on. I could have said something like, “it’s just a little one.” , or, I could have been smiled when she said “that’s mahogany!”, instead.(which i didn’t think so..)*laughs* I let a little silence.

But as she walked to her room, thoughts lingered inside my mind. Like.. of course, it does have to have that scratch. Of course, it does have to have some stains, spills, dusts and dirts. A dining table should not be perfectly cleaned, or scrupulously scrubbed. If it was, touching it could have been  feeling a devilish cold.  Like.. like a cold plastic table in an empty laboratory room. If it’s disenfected, it’s supposed to be as safe as loneliness. As if it’s like an empty person who establishes a poker face. A society that lacks hearing. A young adult who is isolated.

Life would be an awful, boring place to go through if holes aren’t scattered, if bumps and lumps aren’t made to slow you down, or if slippery paths aren’t slippery enough.

But.. of course, i didn’t say that to her.

Of course.