childhood nostalgic

3:29 PM

When I was small, weekends meant Taman Hiburan Rakyat (THR for short).

It used to be shoulder-to-shoulder noisy; now it’s… politely asleep.

Still open, still enterable, but the volume is turned down and I’m somewhere between too young to leave and too old to belong.

I brought my camera.

I brought my denial.

Here’s what we found.

Photo notes (choose your own heartbreak)

Twelve random frames, zero captions, make your own story.

Grainy on purpose, like memory.

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Poem: Traveled to the future as a child

The entry sign still believes in Saturdays,

chipped letters practicing hope.

The ticket booth keeps its window shut.

A small kingdom between rulers.

Ferris-wheel ribs lean on the sky,

a sleeping giant too tired to wake.

Carousel horses hold their breath mid-gallop,

mouths open to a music the speakers forgot.

The prize stall is all glass and echo.

I swear I can smell cheap balloons.

A bench for two waits by the path,

gossip sold separately, splinters included.

Bumper cars rest nose to nose,

out of grudges and electricity.

The snack cart has its shutters down.

My teeth remember sugar like a scar remembers heat.

Stage lights blink in daylight, brave for no one.

A painted map shows a perfect park

that survives best on paper.

Ring-toss halos sit obedient, finally holy.

The exit gate holds its posture like a lesson.

We never practiced leaving.

I came here to test if time forgives

children who grow up late.

It doesn’t. It catalogs.

It keeps the ticket stubs after the show is gone.

I touch the rail where my hand used to be smaller,

same metal, colder.

Nothing breaks.

That is the strangest mercy of all.

We name it nostalgia so it hurts in order.

We say we’re fine; the body rehearses longer than the heart.

We listen for the old song.

The silence counts in fours,

patient as a ride that won’t start.

We always turned back.

One more time.

What I miss (and what stayed)

Missed:

The soundtrack, coins clinking, rides breathing, vendors yelling like uncles.
Permission to be tacky and thrilled and sticky and loud.
The version of me who never checked the bolts.

Stayed:

The shape of the place. My feet remembered before my head did.
The map that still lies kindly.
The feeling that growing up is mostly learning to stand in line for nothing and call it peace.

I miss everything.

Ikkel

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