'Tis the Rainy Season

It rains every single day lately.

I know, I know, you're probably already tired of me writing about how rain is the perfect weather to write, and then I'm gonna start rambling about hot coffee in a warm room reading book and listening to lo-fi hiphop and acoustic medley of my favorite rock songs. Classy, comfortable, safe.

I wish that was the case.

Because with thunderstorms like this outside, it's definitely BMTH or OM&M time. Blasted loud on your crystal-clear speaker you don't usually bring out the full potential of, because tolerance, but now definitely calls for the moment. Screaming at the top of your lungs to incoherent choruses and 155 BPM guitar riffs. I still have a book on my hand, though, and the coffee's long downed.

Sometimes it rains just when you're finished with class. You take out your umbrella and earphone, and you decide to walk home instead of taking the bus, listening to acoustic medley of your favorite rock songs. Oh, I said that already. The raindrops falling atop the nylon canopy of your umbrella, following the beat of the song. Profound. Your boots tap against the small puddles scattered on the pavement, one hand in coat pocket. It smells like dirt mixed with fresh water. You take in the earthy scent. Pluviophile.

But I lied. Nobody wants to walk home when it rains. Everyone ubers their ass home, that's why the fare skyrockets as soon as the first drop hits the roof. Public transports become packed like crushed sardines in a tin box. Even when you didn't forget to bring your umbrella, the wind was too strong for your trousers and shoes to avoid the droplets. You're torn between shielding for your backpack or shoes, and end up soaking both.

Even when you decide it was raining light enough to be romantic to walk home, you're not in a music video, you're not in a movie. Drainage was shit, uneven potholes give way to large puddles which depth you're unaware of, and before you know it your sneakers are muddy mess beyond recognition. Some asshole in a car thought it would be funny to drive past by, full Initial D-style, and you were too late to protect your side with your umbrella, one of its metal ribs broken, limp in defeat.

You were lucky enough to have a roof to get home to, though, I reminded myself of a silver lining I could salvage from this situation. And at least you didn't get struck by lightning or something, and that one sounds more like a jinx. But thankfully I was already at the doorstep, shaking the water off my sky-blue (although the sky right now is dark grey) umbrella and fumble with the keys.

"I get the romanticism of walking under the rainy sky, I really do," I said as I tossed my soaked everything to a plastic bag, making a mental note to contact the laundry service when it's sunny later. "My main complaint is the drainage system, also maybe I should get a bigger umbrella."

Most of it all, I get the romanticism of staying inside a cozy room sipping a hot beverage, in contrast of the cold and thunderous atmosphere outside. It's the only way to enjoy this situation, or at least avoid the harsh reality of it. I prepared my electric kettle to brew a cup of steaming hot coffee and warm myself up. Clothes changed to dry, my mug and dripper prepped on my desk, my bluetooth speaker connected to my iPod, and I set myself on the bed with a new book. Kettle on.

and whop. Blackout.

Like I said, it's metalcore time, because sometimes you're just not blessed with the chance to enjoy yourself.

I wish your rainy days hold better than mine.

Bandwagon XI

Ever since I was in junior high school, I was always a fan of bands.

The year was 2008. Internet was not widely accessible through your conveniently reliable pocket-sized computer yet. Spotify was not a thing. If you wanted to listen to music, you get your arse to the local music CD shop and buy a whole album. If you're more tech-inclined you went to limewire or napster and burn a couple of tunes into your monochromic-screen mp3 player or polyphonic feature phone.

MTV was still a primary resource if you're into the music scene, and their top 40 charts were generally still filled with rock songs. MCR was a huge topic, musical and sub-cultural. Thirty Seconds to Mars new music video during lunch break. Muse dropped their biggest album yet and Starlight made their way into mainstream. Avenged Sevenfold's copy of City of Evil album was handed over during recess to curious eyes in my classroom. Green Day thrived as their single American Idiot sparked controversy. Special rock segment in TV programs in allocated time. All in all, it was a thriving era for rock bands.

I wasn't one to avoid it; in fact I found it enticing. Just ask my former classmates how transparently obsessed I particularly was with Linkin Park. I was in their official fanbase, I contributed writing to fansites, I checked out their news regularly, following their tour dates and videos of live shows one day afterwards. There was not a single day I could shut up talking about them.

Years passed by. New albums were released. Internet became even more widespread, more accessible and more clever. Algorithms recommended me more variety of music to listen to, as I found more and more bands to take notes of, and video streaming services provided more contents to my liking. My computer was filled with 16 GB folder of music, and I religiously updated my iPod. Growing up in the 00s, it was mostly bands, and I liked it loud with fast-paced drum beats and pounding guitar riffs.

It was not until high school that I picked up my first guitar. My family wasn't musically inclined; the only instrument in our house was a small violin my brother bought for an extracurricular activity, which at the moment only gathered dust on the top of the wardrobe. I bought yamaha guitar, an oversized stringpiece that's seemingly too big for my stout figure. Got myself a private teacher but what do you know, apparently classical guitaring and rock 'n roll guitaring are two completely different things.

I quit after three months.

I was oblivious to this fact at that time, but I was clearly tone deaf. I had no trouble memorizing chord patterns and finger positions, but synchronizing the sound produced by guitar strum and the actual note was a struggle. I couldn't differ between a C and G, let alone comprehending how to tune the damn thing. The whole time I just mixed and matched between the chords people had written out and strumming it accordingly, but it just didn't come naturally.

I just stared in awe as my instructor showed me which fret I should hold on to for each verse, after I told him a song I wanted to play on guitar. It was probably a basic knowledge for him (and maybe for you), but it wasn't for me. It was beyond my understanding how someone could pinpoint exactly what chord to strum after only listening to it the first time.

I think at one point he said that if I can manage to play guitar classically, mainstream songs become easier to play. I just nodded when he said it, thinking he got a point, and I was already eager to be that girl in class who plays guitar flawlessly. I wanted to channel him, playing people song by request without looking out google for help or seek shelter from ultimateguitar.com. I didn't know it then, but it was the equivalency of taking Gardening 101 in a culinary academy to prepare a gourmet meal because you want to try cooking chicken alfredo. It's expensive and it takes a long time, while your stomach is already grumbling for dinner.

But when you've spent your early days eating gourmet meals, you just kinda assume it's a basic privilege for everyone to get and to give. It didn't occur to you that people spent years and years of their lives grinding away at the culinary academy to bring you a sufficient plate of delicacy. Just because you enjoy eating fancy pasta doesn't mean it's your path to become an Italian cuisine chef. It's possible, some shonen manga would even consider this as their main concept, but in real life it doesn't always work.

So for me back then, it was never about the music.

It was more about the feeling of being in a community larger than yourself. It gives you something to naturally connect with other people, hey yeah I listen to x too! great band! Like I said, I've contributed in fansites, I met many fellow fans online from all around the world, it was a refreshing way to occupy my spare time and it just so happened to be.. bands.

I liked the sense of teamwork they emit. A group of different people, but like-minded in a particular way, working together with family-like bonds, getting through hard times side-by-side, producing sounds and words that speak to other people, until they managed to rise to fame. Surely fame is beside the point, but without it their music would never reach me, a mere student stuck bored in a classroom in some third-world country unreachable from their world tour. Physically they were far, far away, but information behind computer scene is beyond fast, you would find out where they are touring right now without having to ask. I liked watching their interviews, discovering more personality traits of each individuals, seeing when one of them improvised on stage, pinpointing the exact outfit for each show venue, and so on.

But beyond the shallow reason of idolatry, of course there's the subliminal point of message. Even when I didn't understand music, I could understand the emotion it evoked inside me. And it was one thing you can't take away. You can argue how musically bad or lyrically cringy an album is, but you can't say that I don't feel powerful listening to it. The bands I listen to, they were angry, they were fast, the vocals are screaming, the choruses explosive, the lyrics gargantuan. They were channeling my inner rage I didn't know I had, and it was amazing.

Growing up, the bands I listen to become less angry, as did my emo level. It was no longer two-layer electric guitar distortions, but two actual guitars: steel and acoustic. Four chord songs became eight chords with weird annotations like #7 (got it from UG, I still can't play guitar). Shut up when I'm talking to you turned into the water's clear and innocent. I found out that you can still make the music fast and pounding, without so much of a rage. But yeah of course I still listen to bands, old habits die hard.

In a sense, I still kind of regret that I didn't seize a chance to play in a band while I had the time. I know what I did wrong; I was supposed to learn guitar with a group of friends, jamming along to songs we all know and like, embracing the poorness of our untrained vocal cords, collectively developing small callouses on our left-hand fingers, writing out cringy lyrics during class hours and passing the notes on among us, jokingly cursing that one person in the group who was clearly more talented than the rest of us, all done together.

Perhaps it's just a case of 'the grass is always greener on the other side'. My life would probably become so much different if I was actually in a band. I could be cherising it really much and still have former bandmates I can talk to now. I could be regretting that decision because somehow I got too caught up in playing and neglected my academic responsibility. It could be that it's not so much different, that I still graduate with a bachelor's science degree and I just play my jukebox part whenever there's an event. There's no telling.

It's just among these what-ifs that I could do so my adolescence years were less lame, I know for a certain that I can't change the past, but that doesn't mean I should be tone deaf forever, right?

Maybe it's time for me to pick up the guitar again.

Run Away with Me.

Hello,

I hope this post finds you in good health, as I do. The weather has been relatively unforgiving, with the feet-soaking thunderstorms and otherwise looming grey clouds haunting you with the possibility of unpleasant ride home. Both of my only beater pairs of shoes have already fallen victim to the harsh street puddles and asshole car drivers, and I wish this would not happen to you too. Take care of your sneakers and health, and eat well.

Speaking of eating, I found a new shop selling dumplings that you might like. It was a fairly old shop, but they started selling dumplings only recently. This might sound random or out of place, since we never talked about dumplings, but I figure you would always appreciate good food.

Alright, enough with the chit-chat. I know we don't always see eye-to-eye. I know there's always this unspoken boundary between us. I know you don't believe in my conviction. My dreams are not exactly what you call ideal, nor yours are what I call realistic. But on the middle ground, where we can holster our guns and sip from our flasks instead, I can see it in your eyes: something similar we both have been holding back to say.

Some might say it takes one to know one. I'm a person of subtlety, and as quizzes mesmerize me, I found enjoyment in deciphering how you speak in roundabout way. I would know, because sometimes that's what I like to do too. Some might say it's downright annoying, but probably I have too much spare time.

Empathy was never my strong suit, so I might not know how I can help and in which way it's best to do it. But discrepancy, on the other hand, is pretty fun to spot. The footshift, a moment's hesitation, a little glimmer in your eyes, the eyebrow twitch. The tone of curiosity. A bit of passed judgement. I might be wrong, though.

My problem was never yours, and vice versa. Our ways of coping might be different, but there are some cards we both lay bare on our poker table. The dealings of burial. The denials. Tell me, mon ami, when you were set out to bury the seed in your backyard, did you mean for it to be nurtured with water and rich soil, for it to grow into something big and sturdy, giving fruit and protection for your future legacy? Or did you mean to leave it out to die, to rot in between other junks already feets deep within, to be forgotten by time?

I've had my share of junk-filled backyard. Sometimes I wish I could just erase it all, delete the whole backyard and create new one, like in the game The Sims. Sometimes all I wish was to reset the whole game, make a new person, back to day one. I'm only less than a quarter century away, and I already have this gaping hole of regret gnawed out inside of me.

Ah I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make this ramble about myself yet again. My point is, at the current pace the junks are flowing in, I would no longer have a backyard soon. Mortgage is skyrocketing, houses with backyards are getting scarce, I'm selling, things are overwhelming, you know how it is. We talked about this once.

So here's my proposal: Pack your bag to a bare minimum. I will be waiting for you next Sunday at the local train station, 9.30 AM. I will give you an hour or two to decide whether you only want to see me away or buy the same ticket as I do.

See you. Or not.

Post-Wall

Brainfreeze. Not the ice-cream type. Just... brain, dead. Shut off. Shut down, like your computer after a long day of work.

I feel a storm approaching. A gigantic wave, tsunami they called, is heading fast towards me. I just... stood. Numb. A small part of me wanted to give in to the overwhelming power of water, immersing my soon-to-be-dead body. Drowning is not the most pleasant way to die, but then, what is? Dying in your deep slumber? Injected poison into your bloodstream? Quick, clean shot to the brain? Or being hunted by a professional assassin with astounding knife skill?

I read a lot of shonen manga when I grew up. Not anymore, of course. I always thought I wanted to be Zoro, but in reality I’m more of a less-developed character of Usopp. The time that girl said she would kill me because I deliberately (but not really, just to see what would happen) throw a tube to her stomach (it’s a long story), I broke down and admitted my mistake, that I didn’t mean it, that she wouldn’t actually try and kill me. She was a lunatic, but not one you wanted to mess around with. She said she forgave me and asked, “did you know why I forgive you?”

Because you are the child of tomorrow, she said. She rambled on a lot of things I didn’t remember, but I was crying in relief, because I didn’t die that day.

My point is, I can occasionally joke about wanting to die, but when it’s actually in front of my eyes, I don’t kid around.

So the girl was just one entity inside my dream, and the tsunami is the frequent one. The storm is a metaphor, but it’s there.

Yet my brain still freezes. What do I do?

I Wrote A Stupid Thing

..I wrote a lot of stupid things, actually. lol. Don't we all?

You're having kind of a free day, alone in your room. Not knowing what to do, you decide to open your laptop. After two minutes of scrolling your FB feeds and deciding it wasn't worth your time, you close the browser tab as you take another sip of that freshly brewed coffee from the old mug you've had since college day 1 (not the coffee, you bought that pack last month).

And then your hands subconsciously type up your blog webpage link. And before long, everything inside pours out. Your hopes and dreams. Your guilt and fears. All your past and future. We all went in a little rowboat. That dumb fiction about your crush three years ago. The weather. Review of your favorite comics. History of your favorite YouTuber. Just everything, you know.

So it's a national holiday today. And what better way to start the day other than brewing a mug of hot coffee and writing stupid thing in your blog about how you wrote stupid things?

Not really, tho, I started this day by listening to Fitter Happier. Just normal stuff.

Holiday or not, I normally start the day by making coffee. Just boiling some water in the electric kettle, as I prepare my filter paper, dripper and coffee ground. The mug is always there by the bedside, patiently waiting for me to greet him each and every day. One cup of coffee ground on the filter paper inside the dripper, and I pour the hot water in. I let the coffee drip until half of the mug is filled, then pour the rest with hot water.

In short, I made an americano. No sugar or milk, because life's too short to wash coffee mug everyday. No sugar means no fuss with ants, and no milk because I can't be bothered to buy grocery as part of my routine.

Making coffee is less about me being obsessed with this roasted, burnt black bean, than a ritual to wake my senses up. Have you ever heard that if a person is depressed and has difficulty finding a reason to get up in the morning, it helps to set a list of small tasks to be done? Well, brewing coffee has been on my list for quite a while, and it has become a habit until now. If you consider the weather in Bandung, the warmth of the fresh brew also helps dealing with the chilly wind.

Sometimes I would wake up to the clock striking 12 pm, do the whole coffee thing, and then sit on the edge of my bed looking at the steaming hot coffee, eyelids heavy, head aching, barely conscious, "why did I even make this coffee?"

It's not like I have something to do. But sleeping again after 12 pm is highly inadvisable at best.

A friend of mine once spent a night here, and the morning after I offered if she wanted a coffee. She said no, so I brewed myself a cup as usual and none for her. She asked stuff like, "why do you even brew coffee?" and I thought to myself good question, why? and then I answered along the lines of, "so it reduces my need to sleep again" and then she asked again, "so what if you wanna sleep again? it's weekend." and then I thought again to myself: good point, why do I even need to wake up?

You see, it's a good thing to sometimes accompany yourself with another person so it shed some new perspective on your life. She pointed out a habit that I wouldn't otherwise notice has rooted deep within me. It has become an automatic thing to brew coffee right after I wake up, doesn't matter if I have anything to do or not that day. It had been on my list for quite a while that I don't even recall I have a list anymore.

When I first started setting this routine on my list, there was a spark of excitement, because I find something to do to help me avoid going back to sleep and loathe myself for wasting my time away. But right now, it has integrated into the whole 'waking up' pack that I barely feel doing anymore. There was no spark anymore. It's kind of like you've been working in a job for quite a while and you get bored doing it. I guess I need a new routine to wake me up.

Maybe I'll just get back to sleep.

Lost Child.

The noise sometimes stops, but nothing is certain. Sometimes they don't.
Echoes in my head.

I typed slowly, my fingers following the rhythm of the thumping bass. More often than not, it rings in my head, right after I woke up from my seldom peaceful slumber, before I wash my face or brush my teeth. When I like a song, I like it, probably a little too much. When I hate something as well, it's not very different either.

And right now I hate myself. For putting myself in this situation.

Things can be worse, of course. Thankfully they're not. But it can be better, and I regret how I didn't even try to work on that.

I barely floss. Maybe that's why the dentist took two of my molar, and working his way towards convincing me on the third. Anaesthetic and medical bill aside, I just don't like the idea of this person prodding inside my mouth yet again. Nothing personal.

I clenched my left fist, eyes closed. This was the best part.

In an interstellar buuuuurrrsssttt

My molar-deprived gums felt a gust of air brushing inside.

I'm back to save the uuuuuuniiiiveeeerseeee

I do wish I have the capability. I wish I could stop saying that. I'm part of the universe, anyway, why fret?

"How long have you been standing there?" I removed my earphone as the music finished.

"Two hours." The figure by the doorframe answered.

"I've only been here for ten minutes."

"Okay, two minutes then."

"My voice is that good?"

"I'd pay for the lipsync, but don't push your luck."

"Thank you. Now, what do you want?"

"A good night's sleep and acne-free face."

"But that's me."

"Then we both want the same thing."

"Where is this conversation going, anyway?"

"I dunno, ask the audience, maybe?"

"Fifty-fifty?"

"Okay, let's stop here."

"You started it."

"Fair enough."

"Now will you excuse me I'm quite busy at the moment."

"Lip-syncing?"

"The album hasn't ended yet."

"I figure so." She walked closer and put an envelope on my desk.

"Tomorrow?" I asked.

"Yeah. Good luck." She headed out.

Alone once again. Playback resume. One click, two clicks. A few typing here and there. I took another sip from my mug, set it down, and open the envelope. You never know how hopes and fears can come from a sheet of paper.

Three Unsolved Mysteries of The Universe

...more like Tayverse, because they're mostly mysteries from my time and age, and I don't intend to pass on this stupid legacy to next generation or anything. lol.

Sometimes you just look at the sky and at one point you would ask, "why is it blue?" and find out it has something to do with wave frequency of the sunlight refracted by our atmosphere. Maybe you do it at night, and instead wondering, if the stars aren't visible that much, how do the scientists know there are millions of billions out there? Maybe when you were a kid you asked your parents where babies came from. And then you don't ask ever since.

Alright, I digress. Those are all good questions, and I've been told that in science there's no stupid question. Almost all good stuff begin with 'why?' or 'how?', and might hold the key to the future but these three unsolved mysteries of the tayverse only need one keyword: "what?" and past-driven instead.

Yeah, that's kinda what I've been asking myself, what the hell man? You could try to shift that curiosity into something far more useful, and instead all you can manage is these dumb-ass questions??

Sometimes I ask myself, "what the hell is wrong with you?" but we're not going there today. These so-called mysteries are less of mysteries than reminiscent tale of stuffs that shape me into who I am today. Okay, maybe 'shape' is a bit too much. They're more like chapters of my life. Chambers, if you will. They're like... bits of memories that shaped like jigsaw puzzles, where I'm missing one of those parts. And the search for the answers would resemble me looking underneath my board game drawer or shaking the jigsaw box to make sure nothing left inside.

1) That "Miharu" comic

This was a reminiscent chapter during my elementary school era. I have read A LOT of comics throughout my life, but this one particularly glues its way into my head: because I literally FORGET its name and now I feel like I can't die peacefully until I know what the title is.

It's been a while, obviously, and it's actually more like a shojo manga in chibi-like artstyle where the main character is a small school girl who has a crush on a boy, who's also liked by this rival girl character. Your typical shojo. The distinction is that our girl has magical split-personality kind of thing where she can change her personality (and I use this term loosely) based on how she ties her hair. 

So she has three different split personalities: the smart one, the fierce athletic body, and the kind, well-mannered one. Just your average life, really. I recall she named them accordingly: "Mi-chan", "Ha-chan", and "Ru-chan", and thus their names combined made up her actual name: Miharu. THAT'S the first clue I used to search the name of the manga, but so far I found none resembling that. There are a lot of shojo manga distributed in Indonesia that aren't freely scanlated on the internet, so I guess it might be one of those.

There were a few stories about her, but what I can remember is when she and the rival compete to win that boy's heart: through sport events and brain games. I just realized that due to those magic people inside her hairstyle (not literally), the Mi-chan 'supercomputer robot' who knows everything, and the 'possibly retired from the olympics and decided to possess this little girl' Ha-chan, she basically cheated her way through the whole thing. Dammit, Miharu. Have some respect. (but moral quiz tho: is it really cheating if it's a part of her?)

If you guys ever remember reading something like that, please help a girl out. I'm frustrated because this isn't rocket science but so hard to discover. Thanks inb4.

2) Colin's shirt From The Basement 2008

I'm a relatively recent fan to Thom Yorke and the Radioheads, which is a pity because I've been liking their 'The Best Of" album since high school. Given that statement, being a fan implicitly means following their news, watching their live shows, and of course... memorizing their names.

Colin Greenwood is just your average bassist (usually forgotten, lol jk ily colin) and From The Basement is just your average (it's not) live music show where it's sound produced by surprise, surprise, Radiohead's own producer Nigel Godrich. So in 2008 they performed most of songs from their then-recent album In Rainbows, and Colin was donning this totally average tree-themed black tee. Totally average, right? But nobody knows where they can get it. At least as far as I know from online group discussions, nobody has managed to find out where to buy it. This doesn't mean that I want to buy it, per se, but I was just curious (I still am, actually).

FYI, the Radiohead fanbase is really extensive, and they're usually really quick to catch if something's up. Last week some fans took a picture of Thom (the lead vocal if you don't know, you cretin) when he was signing stuffs during their South America tour and not long, someone posted info about how his totally average-looking shirt costs $300. Pretty normal, huh. I'm not judging his fashion choice, but it's just weird that so far nobody manages to give me info on where I can get Colin's shirt.

3) That shady Jakarta motel on July 2008

This is a real story about a real place, somewhere in Jakarta, but probably isn't like one you quite imagine. Long story short, I joined a group tour abroad for a few days, and was supposed to fly home immediately after a short transit in Jakarta. But for some reason, the flight home was delayed until the next day at dawn, probably around 4-5 am, so the group had to stay for a few hours in Jakarta after landing at around 10-11pm. The organizer didn't book a hotel for us (because this wasn't in the original plan), and this was a time when browsing and booking hotel online through your smartphone wasn't yet a thing. So I guess in a last minute attempt to avoid these preteen junior high schoolers from reporting to their parents that they had to sleep on the bus, we were booked a motel.

Shady-ass motel. 

I figure it was the cheapest thing they could manage, but really? Even I knew it was a building specifically engineered for, uh... one night stands. Imagine bringing a group of preteen students to stay in the same motel as the other, uh... customers. But just recently that I realized how messed up that prospect is. It was more of me wondering what factors were put into consideration that they decided it was okay for us to be there in the first place. The location, maybe it's close to the airport? The room rate, maybe it was almost 1/4 the price of normal hotel? Who knows, right??

I've been talking to my old friends who were joining the tour, but they don't seem to remember where it was, either. There are no picture, online documentation, social media status whatsoever that give some clue of its whereabouts.

Or that it ever happened. Maybe it didn't happen at all. Maybe I'm going crazy. Old friends, please reach my contact should you ever remember where it could be. Cheers.

Holding Back

A couple nights ago I had a chat with my old friend (yes I have friend), basically reminiscing about our past. We've been friends since junior high, which was like... 11 years ago? Damn time flies. But of course it does, if all you've been doing is looking back. We talked about that time in junior high school, hoo boy, classic moment of my period. I feel like it's the only time I actually live my life and make memories, not even my high school moment can compare. SO much stories.

This blog has a pretty old tag I labeled '9sbi', and that's where I write random stuff about my junior high class - 9sbi. I was in 9th grade when I started writing blog posts. I even created a blog dedicated for my class, where I would write events happening in the class, in journal-like manner. Bear in mind that I was still in 9th grade - or my 15 y.o ass - so looking back, I get serious cringe syndrome. I remember I initially wanted to make it sort of like an information center for my classmates to check on homework or event information, while also putting up magazine-like articles where I report what happened weekly (or daily? I had big dreams). It was a time of no practical chatroom apps like Whatsapp or LINE, and Facebook was just barely known, so I figured that would help.

When my friend called me that night, we decided to take another look at the blog again. Man, never have I laughed that hard in a while. The sense of familiarity and sentiments, with hints of cringe here and there, I was once again a junior high student with obsession towards Linkin Park. What really hit me was how carefree I wrote back then. I didn't worry about my classmates looking at my writing and thinking to themselves 'wtf is this guy writing'. I didn't worry about exposing my obsession towards LP. I figure it's very unprofessional and off-putting to be making references about your favorite band in a totally irrelevant article about classmeeting, but hey was I young and dumb (and happy).

Back then, I didn't think much. I didn't hold back about what I want to write. Of course, in a professional situation, that would be unlikely preferrable. I understand that there are things I need to refrain from telling, references like LP lyrics that I need to keep to myself. That old blog was definitely for internal purposes, we were all still young and got no real problems weighing us down, and everyone knew what an LP freakbug I was so I guess nobody minded.

Things change, of course. I realize how far I've become, and how much I've been holding back on my writing because I worry about what people might think of me. Maybe I'll unintentionally overshare things that are supposed to be private. Maybe writing so much about myself would make me appear narcisstic. Maybe exposing my feeling would damage my reputation. Maybe I would look obsessive talking too much about my favorite bands.

I realize how I can sometimes think too much about nothing. I get anxious thinking that somehow a future employer might stumble upon my writings and think I'm too fragile to deal with real problems. I get cold feet everytime people say they read my blog, regardless of what they think of it. I worry that I treat this blog too much like a shrink and I reveal too much of my weakness for the world to see.

For a moment, that night of reminiscent set me free. I smiled, knowing that the person who carelessly rambling about her favorite band and unprofessionally, but happily crafting her young and unwise words to shape a writing of her style, that was me. That childhood mischief was still within me, small and steady, writing away in her old axioo laptop with windows 7 installed (but that axioo laptop was already broken and windows 7 is practically non-existent so maybe she died already also but I'm trying to keep my optimistic mood here so yeah)

I plan to keep her alive. Wish me luck for a worry-less 2018 T. Thanks.