There will come a time very soon- I anticipate- where I won't have such and such a view anymore.
Does it matter to me?
Do I feel sentimental about it?
If I think carefully, well, the answer's yes, and no.
Yes, because whether I like it or not, there has been such a view in my life, and in any case, those times didn't feel so bad.
Yet at the same time, there's also a No, because, well, it would have been well to not have such and such a view in the first place.
Life is such where most of the time we can only afford to roll with whatever we have. Questions like why we're there, why we're doing what we doing, what it is we're doing, and what the purpose of it all- we want to ask, we wish to ask, but we can't- the answers after all help little to our life and don't always bring the assurance we seek anyway.
But they have happened, they did happen, and that's all we can think when attempting to cope with regards to it.
Perhaps one day the view of this HDB void deck near Serangoon Central won't matter so much to me anymore.
Perhaps one day the memory of myself sitting at the bench that granted me this view will also no longer be relevant.
I'm not sure when the relevance will disappear.
It has, after all, been three years over since Covid began, and visitor restrictions set in where instead of two visitors now there could only be one.
So I decided to sit out.
We didn't need two people to kit up in plastic aprons and mask up clinical style. One person- the more important one whom the elderly wanted to see- was enough. The other person got relegated to look after the backpack and other stuff.
Here's the funny thing though.
When it was I actually started sitting there, I can't recall.
Perhaps it was a few months after the restrictions set in.
Perhaps it was after a while when I realized I didn't want to sit waiting for 30 minutes on the ledge at the Home's Garden under the hot afternoon sun.
It was more comfortable sitting here in any case.
At least there was better wind.
Most of the time I armed myself with paper and pen writing through a page. Sometimes, though, I put my heart to Youtube videos, online manga, or conversations with people on the messaging platforms.
Great way to pass the time.
There'll be some memories of this place that hold unique, of course.
Not just of myself doing what I'm doing, but others, too.
Like that of a boy, around 8 or 9, playing with a ball all by himself in the open courtyard, kicking it, chasing it, kicking it, chasing it again.
Like that of a lady whom, having seen me there writing diligently on my page, paused to ask if I were a teacher.
And like that of a senior citizen, with his walking cane, taking a slow stroll around the courtyard with his cute, slow-lumbering, busily sniffing dog.