Flying over a child’s heart

Flying over a child’s heart

When tracing into my memory, the only scene about Titanic in my mind was a serene afternoon—which I believe was a Sunday afternoon, simply because the sunlight was so tender and my mother relaxingly sat in the coach—when I went straight to my mother to sit with her, and subsequently found she was watching a film on television. I reckon she told me it was Titanic, a classic film known extensively around the world. It was so many years ago that I even cannot confirm how old I was at that time, but for sure, I didn’t manage to understand the plot at all, and moreover has completely forgotten about it when I am near eighteen years in Singapore. After watching the 3D version of Titanic here recently, the waving and warming Sunday afternoon came to me over and over again, neglecting the tears attracted by Rose and Jack and imaginarily flying over a child’s heart. It unexpectedly reminded me the little girl I had missed so much that I was even unaware of.

When I was young enough, young enough to know everything I thought I should know, I did not like movies or complex TV series; I thought they are extremely tedious and worth nothing, for I knew nothing about its worthy thoughts and ideas. Nevertheless, the little girl living in my body is so proud of herself that she wouldn’t be frightened by anything about all the thorny problems in life. Her life was full of dramatic dreams with no concerning about future, which seemingly wound never been gone.

Primary school was a rather unreasonable period of journey, for the reason that I cannot recall the reasonable part of it. Boys and girls went to school with an odd ballad continuously coming out from their mind. Every student stood in rows for half an hour or so after school before going downstairs, and girls always play silly tricks on the boy standing as the vanguard right at the front of the class. I do not know the motivation of the elaborate series of actions taken by all the girls standing at the very beginning of the line till today, probably because he actually looked nice.

Junior middle school came as a metaphor for rebirth, we were no longer irrational in that way, but in a tremendously different way. Half year after I entered my middle school, I still could not recognize everyone’s face in class though the size of the class is approximately half of the previous one in my primary school, but was suddenly selected as a Class Leader with fifty-five pieces of votes out of fifty-six in total. I didn’t know what happened, but it seemed no one cared it. I appreciated the fifty-five students who trusted me in a complicated manner, which empowered me to serve the class with all my passion in the unforgettable three years.

Having reenacting all the memories of the little girl in the remote past, I surprise myself with the discovery that I don’t want to be her for another time. It’s so sad for me, not because I cannot adore her life, but it has been clarified that, I cannot live the life in her way any more. I cannot dominate that kind of world any longer.