Hello, there.
I'm not sure what made you sort of come back, but I'm not really complaining.
Do you want to sit while I brew you a cup of tea? Or do you want to jump back into our usual shenanigans?
Oh. Oh, you're doodling your hands again. Okay, then. Good. Straight to action, I guess.
Pray tell me, what is it exactly that makes you decide to pay us a visit again?
Was it the new book that makes you feel things after a long time of being lifeless?
Was it the new layout of the room; sort of a 'feng shui' thing that resonates with your inner energy?
Was it the brief online meeting session with former classmates that reminds you of your current state, and realizes you of the fact that everyone does struggle, and it's only the beginning of another journey?
Was it the realization upon the shallowness of your closeted vanity, that it never really mattered much how you put on your everyday makeup or try to conceal your physical imperfection?
You would never be picture perfect. Not physical-wise. Not identity-wise.
It hits like raindrops on a March afternoon in Bandung. Sudden in nature, gradual in intensity.
It should never be about "being a writer". It's supposed to be "becoming one". Because you're never getting there.
Not until your first big project outshined all your impromptu blog posts. Not until at least one person feels the weight of your writing lift them up from their ordinary life.
But you should never strive for those things, because others' reactions are not for you to control.
Just like a physicist should never strive for a Nobel prize. It should only be the byproduct of years of dedication, hard work, and a little bit of luck.
The journey should always come first, above all.
Progress.
The fact that you're slowly accepting that it was not about impressions, fitting into a vain label, and limiting yourself into an ambitious identity you haven't lived for, it humbles you. Paradoxically.
It's the reflection in the mirror again. Your old friend. Your ever-existing muse. You wrote about her once, and now she makes you write again.
She's a bit different now, but deep down you know she's still the same person. You just kinda forgot to actually look at her. There. Head high. Eyes forward. What do you see?
Highlighted hair. Round face. Chubby cheeks. Small eyes. Big nose. Dry lips. Chin scarred with acne.
Someone who finished her graduate degree from one major, and is currently having a job at a different type of expertise. Someone who feels lost. Someone who feels like she's wasting away her potential, never chasing what she actually wants to do, never playing by her strength.
Wow. what a bleak image. Now I understand why you rarely glance at her again.
But so what if she's not perfect? She's you. And you are... you.
And who is this "you"?
That's a rhetorical question. Don't answer that, because there are no answer for that. For you are never fitting in a box ever again.
Breathe. Smile. Hurt.
And live again.
And write like the curious child that you are.
I hope the doodles persist long enough on your hand to serve as a reminder for you of this day. The day you begin again.
Welcome back.
