You and I, walk a fragile line

Back to the late 90s, when I was just a small boy with messy black hair and round-framed glasses, I only had one sort of blank but still with a tinge of emotion yet not so expressive face, wtf; whether waking up to a floor stained with shiny red blood dripping down from my younger sister's chopped off tiny finger, or coming back from school seeing my grandma sleeping in a coffin right in the middle of my house, with her lipstick on, which I thought was weird that time.

My mum said I enjoyed my own bubble a little too much, I think that's true.
While my sisters were fighting for a stupid dress for their Barbie, which happened all the time, the 4 years old me just sat there, carefully leaning my square chalkboard against the wall, arranging all my colourful chalks on a piece of newspaper and started doodling.
Sometimes I wondered why are my sisters talking to a piece of plastic, then I turned to the other side looking at my mum cutting and sewing different shades of clothes, I was happy to continue playing with my chalks.

Until one day when I successfully drew a rabbit, and the next day a cinderella, my parent's friends suggested them to register their little boy to painting class, but my parent never did. They had a bigger plan for me, their boy shouldn't be spending time with colour.

In high school, I wrote beautiful essay and lyrics. On the graduation day, my teacher told me that I could have a bright future in literature. Words were my best friend, they understand me so well they can translate my invisible thoughts into something I can read, a history, and so I wanted to be a journalist and learn music.
But my parents had a bigger plan for me, and I wasn't strong enough to say what I wanted to say. THAT, will always be a shame that I'll never be able to wash off.

Today, I can officially say this out loud, there is only one more exam standing in between being a dentist and a dream, my parent's dream.
But the time is here, two days away from 24 years old, I should really spend more time penning my life from here. The line should be drawn, not to fence them outside, but to include myself in.

For starter, a tattoo would be nice.

(Probably some of you may say, getting a tattoo doesn't mean you're a grown up. Well silly, do me a favour, hold your fist right in front of you, parallel to your Frankfurt horizontal plane, and stick out your glorious middle finger,and tell me you feel much better now)