Hooked on Hoop

Saturday. The night has fallen. Silence. Only the sputter of the spinning electric fan on the ground, the chaotic confusion from the murmurous television.

There is nothing sacred in my bedroom, the books on my shelf, the ball under my knee as I sit on the cold tiled floor, the MP3 player just charged. Only my privacy, my time.

Sunday. Spent the day mostly in libraries. The plural form due to my switch from Bukit Batok to Woodlands to loan a book: Stendhal's The Charterhouse in Parma. Well, I was undecided after reading the first few pages, considering it seemed kind of heavy, packed with history. And I've already started Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale, long awaiting and dusty from my personal collection. I can be so fickle-minded at time. I can't feel much guilty though, if you look at my options available.

Somehow, after dinner, I found myself at the arcade. There was this basketball game machine, that I once played with KL at Plaza Singapura, where the balls would roll down a gentle slope for the player to shoot into a hoop. For sentimental sake perhaps, I bought a value card and began shooting. Now, the thing about arcade games is that you can get hooked, quite easily. Soon enough, I was breathing hard and my arms ached. But the exhilaration driven by each point was indescribable. I felt just like a little kid, as if the years had rolled back.

I only stopped when the technician appeared, as I stepped away before fetching my bag. I could have gone on and on, for the machine had broken down, the clock failing to run down. Only then I realised my face was gleaming with sweat and time has taken away the years, my strength. If only time had broken down too.

Time may have taken much, yet, we are left with the past, the memories. Why is it when we recall the past, it's mostly beautiful?