wear a suit, then walk barefoot

he is an architect, historian, builder and a storyteller. we met at the art fair, between acrylic and twisted metal. his gait is easy, his shirt one size too big. I listen as he tells me about the book he has birthed on colonial houses – white bungalows, like elephants, accented in black bold lines. he is now studying shophouses, collecting more histories of homes. i tell him about my impossible dream to live in one, and he tells me about the seafront in singapore before it was reclaimed. why does he reminds me of J? the billionaire hobo who runs hotels, performs surgeries and still finds time for the burning man every year. “look me up when you are in sydney, i will show you the breweries, brad and alot of his art,” he says. as we part, he tells me that i will never cure this restlessness in my being. but i must not be sad, i just have to live many different lives – wear a suit, afford everything, then walk barefoot, owning nothing.

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