Dream A Little Dream of...

Lately I've been having dreams every single night. 

Dreams are always a tad weird. They're realistic enough to make you remember bits of it, but too absurd to actually draw conclusion from. Most times if I were asked to describe my dreams, I can only say "I remember there's [...] and [...]", but I can't ever tell what the dream really *is* about. 

For example, last night I remember I dreamt something about smuggling a hamster into a cruise ship, but I was in the body of a male criminal who bribes his way to get good bed in the ship. And the bed was actually medical bed so they had to infuse me with neutral solution as if I was sick. But I can't really say why I was there, why hamster, why I was a criminal, who I was really representing (reflection of real life), or what the dream was ultimately about.

A few nights ago I dreamt about burning a wooden food stall because the owner was a stingy bastard. Hell, I didn't even know *why* my dream decided that he was evil enough to deserve that. In the same dream, there was a lady in the neighborhood who was a know-it-all type. She got out of my house and I locked the front gate, but then my father asked mom why the front gate was locked. (Uhh I was locking it?) I asked why he didn't just ask me since I was there in the yard, but he said he didn't want me to know that he was hunting for demons. He squatted in the corner of the front yard, backs towards me, making sounds to call demons (I guess?) then all of a sudden he turned to me and a demon jumped in front of me. I immediately woke up in that jumpy dream sequence, sitting straight. Wide awake.

They're just... so random that I gave up journaling the dream. Sometimes I don't even know if what I remembered actually happened in the dream, or that my consciousness decided to draw non-existent line just so I could make even just a tad bit sense of what it was about. *Why* did I dream about my father hunting demons? Why did I wake up jumpy?

I really wonder if there is a study regarding how we dream and how it implicates to the individual's real life personality. Is it healthy for me to be dreaming absurd dreams every single night? Why did the dreams start only recently? Why is my dream so damn active when in reality I don't really do much or read many fantasy novels? Does it mean my brain is just looking for output from all that imagination but I can't put it into words? I have so many questions. 

The Notebook

We all get a little specific sometimes in searching for particular things. We have our own standards in deciding something seemingly important like choosing a new phone, choosing where to live, choosing our partner, job, or maybe something as trivial as deciding lunch based on our whim that morning.

Recently I've been looking for a new notebook to replace my old one, because my trusty notebook is getting full of my notes. And what do you know, I apparently have particular specifications for something that seems so trivial. My last notebook was a great companion in which it checks off all the list of requirements I never thought I had in me before.

Notebooks in retrospect seem so trivial. They're just simple notebooks that you write stuffs in. As long as it contains papers, fit in your bag and can be written on (general characteristics that almost all notebooks have), it shouldn't be a problem, right?

Wrong.

The standards that I set for my notebook are crucial that they could be the make-or-break of my next idea, for they affect my muse. 

Upon browsing for new notebook in the bookstore, I found that they didn't really match what I want in a notebook. They are either too large, too tacky, having a cover and binding that's too flimsy, trying too hard with the paper designs, or too expensive, etc etc. I just wanted a small (A6) notebook with simple paper design, with hard cover and ring-binded to fit a pen to write with.

My last notebook was just that. Red hard-cover ring-binded, perfect pocket size and paper design that is neither too tacky or too whitely colored for me to write on. It can also fit a thin pen so they'd come in set as I pulled it out of my purse, ready for me to write my next best idea. And the best thing? It didn't even cost me 20k rupiah. 

Le old trusty notebook

Since I was running out of notebook pages already, I had to settle for the best in between available choices in the bookstore. I had to compromise from my initially (apparently) high standards. So I found this guy Moko-nya. It is kinda larger than I wanted, and the paper design was a bit childish, but it has hard cover and ring bind I could fit my pen in, and didn't cost as much as other alternatives (I just found out notebooks are either too costly or too tacky there was no inbetween). The design *is* a *bit* childish but it was relatively cute and better than other design (either that or Spider-Man or Elsa Frozen).

my new MOKONYA companion

Side comparison

A helluva rant for just a notebook, innit?

I kinda wonder whether my standards are just unmet demands in the niche market of writer's notebook, or whether I was just seeking in the wrong place. I'm sure some of you can relate with the fascination towards a particular type of stationery. I talked about this with a close friend of mine, and even she had a more advanced requirement of the paper color shouldn't be too "white", while recommending pens that are a few mili-milimeter thinner than normal pens. I guess stationery does matter.

Extra-version.

Lately it's been more difficult for me to be alone. Probably due to the pandemic that kept me locked up inside for so long that the agency of being by myself is no longer something that existed. I was forced to stay in, just like we all did. As a wandering introvert who gets her energy from frequenting public places alone, the situation sucked me dry.

I know the pandemic situation has improved in the past years, God bless scientists who came up with the vaccine shots, but I can feel my personality rather changed for the... worse?

There are probably more factors at play regarding my changed self and how I've been coping with loneliness. Probably due to my academic environment that "forced" me to be more "social", probably that I've been moving out to a new place with a roommate that no longer live together so there's a sense of abandonement, probably also the lockdown situation.

Either way, I feel like being alone is not as fun as it used to be for me. Now that we're more free to roam the street, I constantly have the urge to go out everytime I perceive it's going to be a slow day. I want to go on a date. I want to walk down the street again by myself, but not new ones. I want to meet up with my friends, but not new ones. I'm being picky and particular about how I want to spend the day outside. I want it to be exciting, but I don't want it to be too unpredictable. So I keep going out on dates to familiar locations, but since I want to go out so often we begin to run out of places to visit. I keep frequenting the same cafes that I already know is pretty cozy, since I don't want the unpredictability of smokers, rainy weather, and bad toilet.

And when I do have the absolute need to stay inside, being with myself isn't as exciting as it used to be. I resort to the bad habit of mindlessly scrolling vapid social media, catching up with the volatile drama by people who barely touches grass, switching between apps and wondering what's new while avoiding entirely novel things to consume, and overall just denying the chance of meeting my actual self.

Probably it's because I've been situated in a pretty hectic academic environment that I feel like every minute being by myself is a minute wasted. "It's a sunny Saturday with no homework! We should go outside. Who knows if we'd ever get another empty sunny weekend like this again!" Said the voice in my head. After struggling with thesis work and side project for almost a week, I perceived that being locked up alone in my room is almost a pity. Sure, there is time for me to do a creative side project, or writing, but those process usually aren't as short and I would be pissed at the possibility of wasting a sunny weekend staring at empty blank word file or ending the day with a mediocre piece. 

I know, that's just an upward curve that I have to pass to eventually come up with a great creation, but for someone with a relatively limited time and energy, the small chance isn't exactly motivating. But right now I'm not going to talk about my problem with writing. It's about my difficulty in being alone.

Now that I've finished my thesis defense (been a month, I figure), I'm yet again an unemployed, free-range creative writer who disguises her "rants" as "poetic expression" in the form of blog posts. I've noticed that I've been falling victim to my old habit of perceiving my time as either "too limited to try out things I want to do" and "too valuable to be spent writing nonsense". As I finished my post-grad study, "I should be doing more productive things", and "I should be looking for more functional jobs", I tell myself.

But somehow there's a discrepancy between "being at peace with myself" and "being at peace with the rest of the world". Now that I've got a taste in being a functional member of the society through my role as researcher, published several articles and worked part-time on a research project, I've become rather busy. I've seemingly found my place in the community. I'm a researcher, I further enticed my role. But most times during the functioning of that role, I forgot that I'm also my own person with a passion outside my work. 

Of course I take a liking to what I do as a researcher, learning new things and such, but at times it can be too rigid for its own good. Sometimes I just want to let my mind wander around without having to fuss about the citation of my own thinking. Because ultimately research is basically aimed at solving a problem, helping related parties, and coming up with innovative ideas that are related to other people. And being busy "helping" other people and contributing to the literature can somehow take you away from the child in you, because you're too busy being an adult.

As I formed by bond with the rest of the world by taking a specific role, I forgot how it is to be at peace with myself. Probably because it's not exactly what my "self" wants, being an adult like this with all the busy-ness that's keeping me from being curious by nature. There's probably discrepancy between what I say I want and what I actually do, at the very core of this case.

Few dates ago, we strolled around Gramedia looking at books and comics, and whether something catches our eyes. Long story short, the answer is yes, at least for me. I saw this book titled The Art of Solitude by a renowned journalist Desi Anwar (which my mum is a fan of), and it immediately clicked to me. I want it. I want to read the book. So I bought it just yesterday and it quickly becomes my muse. 

I begin contemplating my own solitude. How long has it been since I'm actually *alone* with my thoughts? No social media, no distracting music, no phone notifications, no work. Just me and my brain. What am I thinking when I'm ultimately alone?

If you asked me yesterday the first question, I wouldn't probably remember exactly when, but as the situation unfolds, if you ask me now, the answer is... two hours ago.

I began reading the book last night. It's like my blog posts, but (of course) better (and more structured). I managed to read few chapters before I succumbed to my own solitude, nostalgic mix of lo-fi hiphop blasting on my speaker. I took deep breaths. I was communicating with myself. I was rebuilding the bridge to the island of solitude that I no longer visit. I began thinking about my writing, my dreams, my long-term goal, my journey to get this far, what changed within me and what I wanted back, and ultimately it led me to wanting to write this post.

I was on my way to "the cafe" to write this, but as Fate would have it, they wanted me to daydream a bit more. It rained hard immediately on the way, so me and my bike had to take shelter for half an hour before the pouring water died down. As I stood there watching the rain, thoughts began to take form in my head. Trivial thoughts, but thoughts nonetheless.

I was at peace with my thoughts at that time. At first I cursed at the sudden pour of heavy rain that prevented me from reaching my destination. Then I thought about the delicious chocolate lava cake that I would order if I were in the cafe. Then I watched the rain changed its trajectory and intensity, from thick heavy drips to thinner but more intense layer of droplets. I looked at the sky and the looming clouds, in awe with the occasional visible lightnings. I began wondering how long has it been since I was just... like that. Kicking back and just daydream about the most mundane things. I looked at others who also took shelter in the same place with me, wondering what schedule they have probably missed due to the rain. I cursed at myself for not bringing umbrella and sandals, or for even wearing my best shoes today. But in the end I felt sympathy towards all the ride-hailing drivers who had to send foods and people in this weather, getting their work halted while being able to do nothing about it.

I was actually rather surprised at how cool I was with being alone with my thoughts at that moment. I wonder why I didn't just pull out my phone and scrolling social media like I always do at home. Is it the power of the book that I just read? Do I really miss daydreaming that much? Or maybe, have I learned to reconnect with myself and remastered the art of my own solitude?

Either way, I guess I would add daydreaming to the list of my daily routines. Thirty minutes with my own thoughts is actually very refreshing compared to mindless, endless doomscrolling.

Dear Fate, thank you for the sudden rain. The experience could be better without the dirt on my new pants and shoes, but I guess I'd prepare better next time.

Cheers,

T.