So I went for an expressive art class today and I cracked, as usual, just like 8 months ago, when I first attended creative art class as credit-course in my university.

I broke down by the end of the class. Same old. Same old. I thought. We had movement therapy, paper-tearing, abstract art work, drawing, then ends with writing a story/haiku.

And I wrote this based on my abstract arts.

Memories like fragments

Crumbles like leftover biscuits

Swirls round-and-round

Like a merry-go-round

What are you?

I’m the dust in search of wind to bring me home

Where is home?

I’ll bring you home.

I cracked when I read it to my partner(the facilitator, Pearl) and I choked at ‘Where is home?’ and my eyes swelled up and burst. I swear I tried to compose myself the whole session, I tried to distance myself and keep my feelings on track, not to cry because I don’t want to cry in front of strangers. And I failed myself. Pearl held me at my arm and tried to guides me, feels my body, let my body guides me. And she asked me to say the final sentence.

“I’ll bring you home.”

“Can you say it three times?”

Reluctantly, with my choking voice.

“I’ll bring you home. I’ll bring you home. I’ll bring you home.”

Bring me home.

 

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