Life Update

Hey hey y'all. It's been so, so, so long. I don't even think you'd know me anymore, a starkly different person from the one who last updated this blog.

Hell, she might as well have just died.

I've always loved that phrase, you know, "who died and made you God?". It just sounds so poetic; although as a non-native English speaker, I'm not sure how often you can use it in your normal conversation or how fitting it would be.

But in this case, she died, and yet I see no God up here. In this high horse of so-called adulthood.

I'm turning thirty this week, yet I still don't have my name stamped on the book store. Less than an 'aspiring writer', even, I have abandoned writing entirely as my means of catharsis. I don't even know who I am anymore.

That's... the moldy jam strawberry take of my upcoming birthday (I don't know what that means). I wanted to just write a lighthearted life update, but I desperately need to be emotionally charged first to start typing, and sadness is the only emotion I can consume easily. 

Me no Sad

Sad T makes the best writer T. That's why she hasn't been writing; she's been too happy, too sane, too fitting in, too distracted.

The worst part of being a working adult is that you can no longer be random. Even hobbies need to be planned. Even the prospect of a hobby, the fun thought of a side project, needs a roadmap, you can't just jump into it expecting things to work out. You have to deliberately make it work.

I just started a new job at an IT company. Overall good benefit and it's something I need for my "career trajectory" or whatever. I have a mentor and a probation period for training and preparing for the actual work. But I have little experience and technical skill in IT so learning takes a long time, and adapting to the corporate culture was more challenging than I thought. Open floor plan. Perpetually monitored company laptop. Endless documenting. No free lunch??

My point is, I don't entirely hate what I'm doing at the moment, but I wish I'd have more energy to be functional outside the work hour. I'm left exhausted every single time I clock out that I practically don't have the energy to be human; washing clothes, cooking meals, or even doing stretches or light workouts. All I want to do is lay down on my bed, head empty, only my thumb scrolling hundreds of short-video formats of brain-dead, emotionally reactive contents for hours on end, before I realize it's late night and I need to sleep to get ready for work tomorrow yet again.

Be Still

I can't seem to be at peace with myself nowadays. I get restless being alone in my room. I would either distract myself with my phone or occupy my thoughts with worry about work (yet stubbornly refusing to act upon it because at that point I'd be off the hour and if I do it then doing overtime be my 'standard' work ethic and I'd have to do it every time).

I remember how peaceful I used to be being alone in my dorm room. I entertain my thoughts. I write. I listen to music mindfully. I brew a cup of coffee. I don't think I have ever worried about what to eat. Not in a financially-safe context (although that is true in my case), but more like I was too absorbed in 'the zone' of my activity that it did not matter.

Now I spend hours scrolling online food order, trying to find a semi-decent meal with reasonable price, calculating promotion codes to make it worth it. When ultimately, it's far cheaper to just walk a couple blocks out for a bundle of nasi padang or street kwetiaw, when I'm not in the mood to cook and clean.

I spend hours scrolling Instragram reels for cat videos and memes, finding solace in the endless stream of content, knowing that however shitty I felt that day, there'd always be a funny content to scratch that dopamine itch within my brain. It is the damn phone.

But deeper than that, it's my inability to stay still. 

There's a constant urge to escape the room. Don't want to be alone. Go out to a cafe to write. Hang out at a mall with my boyfriend. But when they're all physically implausible, my brain can still seek the exit: Down the net we go.

Even when there are a lot of activities I have plotted to do at home. I don't know, reading the piling stocks of books in my kindle, finishing my "Book of Dreams", repainting my shoes, painting the paint-by-numbers, practicing bass guitar, practicing drum rudiments, whatever??

I don't know if it's something about my current dorm room; the loneliness; the constantly distracted brain; the mobility. Sometimes it's like I'm actively sabotaging myself from doing meaningful things. From doing the difficult stuff and struggling, entirely forgetting the reasonably paced rewards down the line.

Worrywort

It all boils down to fear. Nothing new there. I'm afraid of starting what looks enticing. I'm afraid I'd suck at it and disillusion myself. I'm afraid it's not going to be as fun and cool as it looked in the first place. I'm afraid of not doing a perfect work in the first try and I have to fix my messes.

(Although I still think the useless no-view and no-air window also plays a huge part in cramping my style in enjoying my alone time.)

Free Will

It might also be that I've been stuck too long in this goddamn city without significant newness to my routine that I've been running on autopilot.

The good news is after a long hiatus of seemingly unending rut of isolation, the new job sort of pushed me into motion, although not without some hiccups.

I mentioned the open floor plan. Especially annoying when you're on an online meeting with some other people, while the person next to you is also on call with someone else. And the desk across me was also being noisy, team members crowding to discuss something about work. 

But a new girl came along, and during her supposedly meeting hour, she got up, took her laptop and headset along, and walked to a separate room to conduct her meeting. Unbothered by the crowd. That's when I realized, you can do that? I fear I've not been exercising free will... whatever that term would mean in the context of a corporate world, anyway.

Last week I impulsively signed up for a community meetup in Bandung, and apparently the venue was just a 10-minute walk from where I reside. I've never walked in that direction because I never had any business in the area, but as soon as my feet crossed the street to that perimeter, I realized I could've just... walked anywhere. 

I could turn right. I could turn left. I could even hail an angkot and take me fuck-it-where. At that moment I realized that I could have exercised this free will at any moment.

But it wouldn't appear if I didn't already have something to do around there.

Cool Stuff I've Done

That community meetup was for an online writing challenge community I followed on Instagram. I did write a bit about #30haribercerita, a challenge held every January to write everyday for 30 days on Instagram. I just thought it was pretty neat to have a place I could channel my writing needs and have some sort of accountability (it being public and everything), but lately I felt the need to connect with actual people.

So as soon as I found out they were holding a meetup in Bandung, attend it I did.

It was rather an impulsive thing for me... especially considering how reserved I used to be. That's why I said she (old T) might as well be dead.

I think it was a nice experience. I got to listen to people's stories from different backgrounds, held together by our fondness towards writing (or the writing community itself), got insight from the community volunteers - about how they worked hard to select stories to be featured, and went home feeling inspired myself.

I ended up re-connecting with an old acquaintance (it's been 7 years holy shit??), met some new acquaintances where we prompted to follow each others' Instagram account, and bought a merch.

My boyfriend said that I was starting to become an ibuk-ibuk, because he thought "communities are how mothers make friends".

I don't know how valid it is (sounds a bit misogynist too, tbh), but tell that to the all-male band members from my previous workplace who (still) invited me for regular practice every Tuesday.

Yeah, I'm "in a band" now, I guess. It's kind of weird. I don't know how people do bands, but I always imagined them as sort of more professional and full-time than whatever it is I'm currently engaged in. Perhaps because it's an after-hour hobby for office workers, the members aren't always regular (except for the core three or four people, so I guess they're the band).

I once jokingly wrote a rant saying that "this office job is the dream... just need a band practice routine during the night". And it actually happened.

Although I ended up ditching that workplace, the members still kindly welcomed me in joining their practice as a vocalist. Which is funny because I don't think I can sing?? But that's what they kind of needed, and I didn't have anything else to offer.

After some time practicing, I came to the conclusion that being in a band is somewhat akin to getting a job, you know? It was a matter of what role they need, and if you were appointed, you just try to do your best at that. Yeah, so it's about compromising yet again, but I was happy enough to already have a place to channel my energy in music. And we do play some Muse and Nirvana so I couldn't really complain. My goal would be to try jamming one or two of the usual playlist in bass or drum, just to have a go at it, you know? Haha.

---

I don't know where this post is headed, and what I was trying to say. I first complained about not being able to write, to be alone with my thought, then phone addiction, then free will, then community. I just have a lot to report on, considering it's been almost a year since I actually wrote here.

I do want to write something more substantial than my lousy experience, but after a long hiatus from creation, this blog page serves as a familiar friend with safe, comforting arms to embrace my welcome yet again. I just want to stretch these writing muscles again, and I think this diary-type report fits in better with the rest of my archive here.

I do miss you all, whoever still reads my page. Such a nostalgia trip, re-reading everything here and finding myself grow from all the cringiness I used to embody...

Take care. Hope to see you again.

Cheers,

-T

Create to Process - Draft #1

Hey. I miss you all.

I was just preoccupied with life and jobseeking (I know - I'm almost 30!) and whatnot when upon a boring, super sunny day, I realized that I could just... write.

Write about my thoughts. About nothingness. About nothing and everything at the same time. No pressure, no thoughts of "personal branding" or giving away "useful tips" for making money. Just me and my feelings. I realized most people don't give a shit anyway, so why bother trying to impress, you know? Express, don't impress.

I kept an online diary. Not blog. .doc files of my daily documentation. But they're no fun. I know that it was just me talking to myself; no one other than me would be reading it. And it felt like work everytime I open one of those. 

Maybe the thrill of keeping a blog has always been the prospect, no matter how tiny, of someone else who might or might not read everything that you wrote. With all the sadness, the emotions, and the cringe.

I joined a 30-days writing challenge back in January, where I had to write consistently everyday for a month and upload the writing on Instagram. It was held annually. I don't think I did really well, and I've skipped every other day or so, but by now I'm beginning to think it's just me holding myself to an impossibly high standard, because I've joined for three years and I got a feature each year (where they re-post your writing on their account).

Not gonna lie, it did make me write more consistently, albeit not everyday, but... to what extent? I reminisce on the entire month. Did I have fun? Maybe, for a bit. Did I get a lot of likes? No, not really. Did I pour my heart and soul into each piece? Not really, because I had things to do alongside the writing. And writing? on Instagram? I was at the mercy of their caption word limit and limited selection of semi-decent representative pictures to upload.

So I began to wonder, what is the point anymore in me writing, if I don't have fun with it? If I can't properly express myself? If it doesn't make me money nor bring good reputation?

Is this just a struggle that I need to go through because my brain cells are beyond fried due to exposure to all these short-form contents? Or is this just indicative of writing no longer being the relevant media for my expression? Am I regressing towards the state of a boring adulthood?

I'd admit that I've also been having difficulty reading. Especially classic literature where they put their entire heart, soul, and extensive ancient vocabularies rarely seen or heard today into it. Where a whole page is filled with description of the setting, and nothing really *happened* until the next chapter.

So, yeah, attention span. Big deal. I have to work for it. Except it's hard. The platforms are out to get you. You practically can't live without your smartphone. Neo-capitalism in place. Efficiency towards dehumanizing progress. The world is in shambles. Idiots in position of power. And they keep getting away with it.

Anyway, maybe this is in part the fact that the more adult you are, you're more responsible towards more things. Things in the world. Things that happened to you.

Often times when I'm journaling, I couldn't really figure out what to write about. It felt like nothing of importance happened, yet in retrospect I have done a lot of things. Meetings are things too, but they're not that exciting as a written experience. I'm constantly torn between micro-archiving every miniscule things and only exploring deeper into the most exciting stuff.

So I haven't been writing; like really writing. Dedicating a time slot to just sit down, focus, and type away to process whatever happened to me. But I know it's necessary. Because sometimes I don't even register that I just went through an extensive job interview until my boyfriend asked about me the day afterwards. Could be the jobseeking burnout, too. Or maybe I'm just losing my mind.

It feels like I'm constantly disassociating. Floating through life from one trivial event to another, not knowing where to go. The light won't guide me, and I'm stuck here forever. Like the ghost of a successful past, treading the eventual downfall of my virtues. No job, no money, nothing.

And yeah, writing used to be a solace from this feeling because at least I'm connecting with myself, one step at a time. But now, it doesn't feel like that anymore. It just feels like a waste of time, and I'm still miserable by the time I'm finished. I hate that I'm feeling like this. Writing is supposed to be meaningful. Not always fun, no, but meaningful.

A lot of things had happened since I last updated here, yet I'm having little to no brainpower to express them all.

Thanks for listening, for the time being. Hopefully I'll be in a better headspace the next time you see me.

Cheers.

-T.

Hey, so..

I can't conjure an apple.

I used to compromise with my supposedly above average skill to develop fitting metaphors for all sort of emotions I was feeling. The way people can connect cloudy grey sky to sad, or sunny blue to happy. Red for blood. Damage. Harm. Lipstick's not even the first thing on my mind.

It's uncanny how we attribute red to both pain and pleasure. Blood. Sex. Excitement.

One thing can be good to someone as it is bad for others.

My therapist told me not to think in black-and-white. I didn't know what that means, but I don't like how grey some things are to me right now. It makes me feel powerless, uncertain, and even more indecisive than before.

And now I can't see any other colors. That's why, yet again, I compromise. This time in the form of picking the most feminine pastel pink color for all my new stuff. Mouse? Pink. Headphone? Pink. Shirt? Pink. Headclip? Pink. Bass guitar? You bet.

At least now I have the courage to actually take on a hobby. I started with a guitar, dreamt of mastering the drums, and now I end up with a bass guitar. Funny how life turns out sometimes. Or maybe I'm still too cowardly to actually pursue what I really want and camouflage it with another, telling people that it's what I want. Kinda like playing a Queen because you're still waiting for the perfect moment to reveal your two Aces. And you don't know if the moment will ever really come.

I stopped re-dying my hair blue, because I'm a functioning member of the adult society, and now all I have is these limp, frizzy, sad strands of hair that died (heh) for no reason. Well, at least if you bleach them dead you gotta make it look exciting, right? But yet here there are, and here I am, dying inside with no sign of color.

This might as well be another version of "jobs under capitalism ruin everything" rant, where I'd argue that these 9-to-5 jobs and the inherent expectations that came included, without seemingly proper security guaranteed, has stripped us dry of all sort of excitement and life. Then it would just be another Palahniuk novel. Or I'd present the contrarian argument that "humans have always had jobs and they were harsher back then", blah blah blah, and I'd still have no idea what I'm doing with my life.

Of course a lot has happened to me these past.. I don't know, months, since I last wrote an entry here? Not all bad, hell, I don't know if anything bad has happened, per se. If anything, I've learned a lot here and there. It's just I seemed to not have time to step back and reflect, much more write about them.

If this keeps up, my hair's going to go naturally white before I can publish anything of value.

Sometimes I wonder what the hell is actually holding me back from pursuing what I want.

Nobody Even Reads This Anymore, Right?

The long weekend is coming to an end. Looming. I have a couple of hours to confess, before the clock strikes twelve.

What is it about Blogspot's Times New Roman font, which is generally treated as the anal version of typography, that feels like the presence of an old friend?

Everyone is going back to their respective workplaces. To their place in society. To their designated function and purpose.

And there's me.

When everyone's busy doing what they're doing, where do I fit in?

The anxiety of being discovered inhibits me from being my true self.

If only I had known the bitter shame of failing to conform, I would deny any form of social awareness.

Tick. Tock.

You have 45 minutes left.

What do you want to be when you grow up?

I just want to disappear.

I'm nothing but a walking shadow of my remnants. Crumbling past and decaying memories.

And expectations of once upon a time a prodigy.

Cook-off

Photo by Gaelle Marcel on Unsplash

Writing is a lot like cooking.

You get the appropriate ingredients (ideas), clean and prep them (jotting down the idea), cut them up and throw away the skins (get rid of irrelevant stuff), filter out scums in the boiling water (get rid of even more irrelevant stuff), season it with aromatic (add flairs and metaphors) and top it up with garnish, and you’d probably end up with something more or less edible.

If it tastes good, that’s a bonus point for you. And for a brief moment you thought you had it in you to become a professional cook.

Just like cooking, writing is never instant. Even if you just want to make something simple, cup noodles still take four minutes to get ready.

Just like the dry noodles needing time to seep all that boiling water, you also need inspiration to seep into your brain and turn them into a short passage according to your vision.

Or not. That might be ridiculous. This is just a thought that pops up as I am currently rewriting yet another draft of my long(ish)-form essay about the evolution of the music genre that doesn’t seem to be done from two weeks ago.

“The only kind of writing is rewriting” As the great sailor-author Ernest Hemingway once said.

Now, I’ve always been scared of calling myself a “writer” or even an aspiring one, because in this age of instant gratification and abundance of content, taking a long time to create one blog post that’s not exactly catering to the masses seems like a waste of energy.

In a sense, that’s actually unfair both for me and for all the content creators out there, because things do take time. 

Unfair for myself because I’m beating myself over the fact that it takes more than one week to finish a mini-essay about music streaming, when I know darn well I’m progressing. Unfair for everyone in the creative industry for undermining their process and somehow thinking that their creation happened instantly.

Even YouTube “video essays” that are seemingly just “rants” probably needed at least a month for idea generating, conceptualizing, and implementation (scripting, script editing, recording, re-recording, video editing and god knows what else). Well… at least the ones I watch and find value in.

And I get that it’s hard to quantify creative processes. How long is too long of a process? How much does a decent design actually worth? How much does an extraordinary painting worth? What defines a good creation? If an alleged “masterpiece” doesn’t have people appreciating it, is it still a masterpiece? If my writing, which I poured out my heart and soul to, doesn’t gain any traction, should I say it’s a flop and I should stop writing?

Even so, the nice thing about creative processes is that it always ultimately stems from the depth of our human need for self-expression. I write because I have an (abundance of) idea to communicate and pour into words. I didn’t initially seek approval or audience, although recently I find myself longing for a community in order to hopefully discuss the idea further and inspire me to keep writing. 

And maybe build myself a portfolio as a “writer” of some sort, because apparently I can’t just expect people to believe that I’m smart and a great verbal communicator.

I know that’s rich coming from me, and I realize how late I might just be. With the uprising abundance of generative AI tools that easily, almost instantly, lets people create soulless contents for the mere sake of capitalizing on it. “Ways to make money from ChatGPT”, they would claim.

We should be celebrating more often the journey of our creative process. Because it’s fun. Because it serves as proof of our existence, the synthesis of our accumulated subjective experiences. It’s who we are as humans.

Creating is a lot like cooking, and just as necessary.

Why I Haven't Been Showing Up (Here)

I've just read a Medium blog post about "showing up".

And I gotta say, these past three years or so I've learnt my lesson to do so. Showing up is exactly the only thing you can control in life. 

I used to not be able to relate to my fellow college mates whom people talked about because they "disappeared" from college. You know the ones, not attending classes but still have their names attached in the academic registry.

Until I become one of them.

There are various reasons for it to happen, and I don't speak for anyone else, but in my case it's mostly personal and internal struggle. A struggle to mingle with new people. A struggle to learn completely new things. A struggle to make peace with myself for not being perfect.

Over time, I managed to pull through with the help of friends who were all going through the same stuff. Apparently, nobody actually knows what they're doing, so all you can do is... you guessed it, show up. 

It's just stoicism, isn't it? Focus only on things within your control.

You don't know for sure if you're going to get the job or not, you can only show up to the interview and try your best. You don't know if your  You don't know for sure if your writing will get the attention it deserves or not, you can only consistently write.

And the act of showing up itself will lead you to a whole new experience. Unexpected things. And a couple of expected ones, I presume.

So why am I writing this?

Probably to ask myself, if you think showing up is important, why haven't you been doing so, as the owner of this blog?

Good question, my friend. (nanya sendiri jawab sendiri) 

Ironically, it's not like I stopped writing. I've just stopped posting.

There's not a single deciding factor. Maybe it's the lack of time and energy from my day job. Maybe it's the demotivation from the declining viewers' count. Maybe I just no longer find ranting in blog posts fulfilling and tried more serious things but never ended up finishing them. Maybe I began to think that spending so much time and energy to write isn't worth it anymore.

Or maybe Blogspot is no longer the satisfactory platform for me anymore.

I've been considering switching to more "modern", mobile-friendly blogging platforms with built-in audience. For my mini-essays or observation pieces related to my media interests like book or music reviews. Perhaps platforms like Medium or Substack.

I already gave a shot at Substack, setting up my pages (and projected topics / sections), and posting a couple of writings. But the menu is just so unintuitive and full of unnecessary bullcraps like subscriber newsletter setups, un-removable "podcast" section on my page, "social" posts and pages, and so on. It's like Medium with extra bullshit.

Medium sounds great because of its emphasized focus on writing, built-in audience (although with stiff competition), modern user interface, plugged-in article images, and mobile-view support. The way it's built makes it feels like it's supporting "branching" ideas like the ones my head usually makes up. Since I've tried signing up for it, I've been getting newsletter emails for topics of my interests, like app designs and writing. That's where I get the idea of how people generally write on the platform (one-sentence paragraphs and clickbait-y oh I'm sorry, it's hooks titles).

I love Blogspot because it's been a safe space for me. It acts like a dedicated little quirky corner for me and my antics in the vast realm of the internet, since the dawn of 2009. 

But the internet has shifted. Everyone keeps in touch through visual-based social media platforms now. Why write (and read) long-ass paragraphs when you can just snap a picture and post it for everyone (you filter to allow) to see, in an instant?

I used to plug links to my blog on Twitter (oh I'm sorry it's X now) whenever I published a new post, where I was my authentic self and my follower friends were highly tolerable to my antics. Usually when I tweet (oh I'm sorry it's post now) a hyperlink to my new post, it turns into an intuitive 'widget' thing that people would easily click, especially if I added thumbnails.

Now the platform policy doesn't really support any external links that will take viewers to another website. Whenever I tried to tweet a Substack link or blogspot link, the (recently implemented) view metric feature shows virtually zero viewers.

Probably also something to do with the seemingly declining trustworthiness of Blogspot. I've done a couple AI-labeling gig jobs, and all the Blogger websites I encountered had only shady contents (SEO keywords spam, copy-pasted articles, etc). So maybe my 15-years-old blog with nothing but my original rant contents is also mushed together with those shitshow.

So... yeah, I'm not really sure what's next. I'll probably still rant here every now and then, and shoot my shot at writing more topical things somewhere more audience can read them. I'll keep updating!

Cheers.

Just Another Sunday

This cafe is located at the heart of the city. I used to make this the setting of my fictional story where I met a street musician turned crush turned significant others (I dislike the term “lovers”, it's just too intense for my moderately modest taste). But I digress.

As one of the most central, bustling, economically productive and attention-grabbing parts of the city, it’s bound to be more well-developed. The streets are generally walkable with wide pedestrian paths, and various culinary and shopping destinations are lined up along the street. 

On a Sunday, it’s only natural there are this many people walking around and about. It’s very lively, very urban. I dig the vibe, which almost feels like being in downtown Paris, with less Eiffel and more tropical bushes.

I’m strategically playing the role of a watchman in the middle of it all. Alone. With my notepad and pair of watchful (but wary) eyes.

Around the room, I see people pouring in and out of the cafe, in groups or in pairings, rarely by themselves. The seats are filled with people sitting together and talking. Some visit only briefly for discounted cups of sweet coffee-stained beverages. Some spend tens of minutes to hours getting heated up in discussions. Most of them are dressed well; some even wear formal clothes, seemingly fresh out of attending a wedding ceremony. The adults are chatting and catching up, telling stories and talking a little bit (or even more) of business, while the children are busy among themselves, running around in their educated tiny pitter-patters.

Outside, I see vehicles passing by. Cars and motorbikes mingling on the road. Shoppers (also mostly in groups) pouring in and out of the infamous Japan-brand clothing store across the street. Trendy clothes, small purses, and paper shopping bags in their hands, pacing leisurely.

Upon the realization, I immediately feel out of place.

Even when this cafe is notorious for individuals working on their laptops, in the scheme of a long weekend afternoon, among people chattering and spending time with friends and families, away from their day job tasks (save for the baristas and service workers who are still on the clock, serving your bourgeoise ass), you trying to meet your self-inflicted blog post deadline (which you still haven’t work on yet btw) does not really fit the landscape.

Perhaps downright suspicious. Like a secret agent scouting out her target whose main choice of style is supposedly Uniqlo, trying to make their fashion statement as low profile as their existence. My notepad on my lap, mouth sipping sugarless iced americano, eyes keep glancing towards the white building.

But I’m in my element here. It’s true that I have developed my social skills to be aware of the collectivist culture at work that might put me in the minority, somewhat strange. But I’ve recognized myself enough to be comfortable being a loner, an observer, a type-two introvert who seeps energy from social interactions among people enjoying themselves, who want nothing to do with me. Me existing solely as a background character of their day, an NPC who spawned rather incorrectly.

It’s the pinnacle of a writer to not be perceived.

What Have and Could Have Been

A playlist to romanticize studying physics, it said.

Nowadays there’s an abundance of hyper-specific content. Especially with music, where people curate a playlist of music to meet certain themes, induce specific moods, etc etc.

I just wished I had something like this back then when I was still studying physics. Maybe, I’d be more dedicated to my STEM roots. Maybe, I wouldn’t have felt so alone. Maybe. I’d just let these classical pieces reverberate inside my room, encapsulate me in the warmth of their harmonies. Maybe I wouldn’t have felt so alone.

All I’ve ever wished for and never dared stepping my toes in.

I’m having a deja vu, sort of. My first dorm room. Late at night, somber music in the background, laptop in front of me, desk facing a window of some sort with its flashy-colored curtain, and I still have the same desk lamp.

Pitter patter to the same old, same old, a decade later…

Always thought that I’d grow up to do great things.

Or maybe that’s the deal with prestigious university alumni, thinking they’re entitled to good things in life just because they aced three semesters or so.

But then again, I’ve struggled to get this far, why wouldn’t I want good things to happen to me?

However hard I’m trying to accept the bliss of mediocrity, my inner thoughts wouldn’t let me. Worse also is the fact that I’m still unsure of what to do with my life, and companies generally don’t want to deal with this sort of indecisive pansies.

Maybe I’m just in over my head too much, and I need to get out more. These days have been sort of lonely, in terms of being a functional, social adult.

Maybe I just need to get exercising again.

Maybe, taking a class or two.

My brain can be such a twat.

Sanitized Insanity

The third “job interview tips” video I’ve seen on my rec this week. It’s only Tuesday.

The company doesn’t want to waste your time as much as you don’t want to waste yours. The question is to make sure they can afford you. Every position is budgeted.

Be honest. Don’t be honest.

“If they want to make sure they can afford me, why don’t they tell us how much they’re paying?”

Two weeks after the grand national election and the whole media is a shitshow I can’t avoid. Mom blasts news channels on the daily. Rice scarcity and skyrocketing prices. Rigged election. Statistically impossible political party vote.

The price you pay for trying to be a smart, objective and educated citizen. The fang of depressing reality sinking deep into your skin.

Makes you wonder what’s real and what’s not. I’d like to coin the phrase gaslighted by the country but even I know how bad and un-catchy that is.

You think you’ve seen it, read it, known it from the history books. You’d think people would learn, but that’s just giving them too much credit. Politically stanced punk rock songs from the 90s suddenly sound relatable again, but that’s just because charts only play the blandest, most sanitized version of music nowadays.

What’s a radio? The youngsters would ask.

I’m turning 30 next year.

The job market isn’t like what it was in 1960. Hell, not even the 1990.

You thought you could get by just well after entering one of the most prestigious universities in the country. Diligent studies. Excellent grades. Organizational experience.

Turns out companies don’t need ‘smart’ people who have the capability to question stuff. They need ready-to-work wrench turners who don’t really ask things. Or loudmouth extroverts with the knowledge of the game, who claim to be anything but.

Be honest. Don’t be honest.

It’s no longer up to you anymore. Not your grades. Not your efforts. And certainly, not you. We may need you, but not that you, you know?

Makes you wonder what you can do by yourself, really.

Explain, they would demand.

Why you’re interested in this job. What your goal is for the next three, five, ten years. What your greatest weaknesses are. Why you have that hobby or this hobby. If you’re single and planning to marry.

Nobody asks about your favorite equation anymore. Or why some beaches have pink sands.

When you were 10 and you played with LEGO instead of investing in Apple Inc. stocks. The meme reads. I double-tap to “like” the post, then I scroll down to see my friend and her husband in the middle of the glittering Gulf country.

I feel the razorblades calling me once again. Perhaps chemical ingestion would be better, since your hand can be such a coward at the last moment.

Fitter, happier, more productive.

When are they calling my name?

Regular exercise at the gym, three times a week.

The meds act as contraception for my writing ideas, in exchange for ten hours of daily peaceful slumber. Thirty minutes five times of workout each week. Salads for breakfast, every morning.

Sometimes I wonder why I resigned from my previous job. The joyous nine hours of being in a windowless cubicle with thirteen other people. Writing reports. Monthly income. I constantly wished for earthquakes, a sudden heart attack, or alien invasion.

Getting on better with your associate employee contemporaries.

I suddenly have the urge to punch the man sitting across my waiting sofa. They had never diagnosed me with aggression. Emotional issue, maybe, but never violence. If you acted up during your psychiatry queue, would they bring in the police or would they understand?

What’s your expected salary? They’d ask.

I wish it was acceptable to answer my baseline requirement is IDR 600K total for two weeks’ worth of sanity. What’s the use in prolonging the inevitable when the world is ending anyway? Lime green-and-white Equitacs for the morning, white half dose of Noztrenia in the evening.

I play a little game called “how many days since the birth of a new routine schedule will it be actually implemented?”. How many days, indeed, even I lost track.

Quick Udpate

It's almost 4 AM, and I haven't gotten an ounce of sleep yet. The nearby masjid has already preparing for dawn azan, but my Youtube window is still playing the soft tunes of "Rainy Night Coffee Shop Ambience with Relaxing Jazz Music and Rain Sounds - 8 Hours".

It's been so long since I'm awake at this hour, especially on a weekday.

They say Thursday nights are the witching period of the week (I don't know if that's the correct term), but the only horror I'm facing is the scary thoughts of existential dreads.

I foolishly quit my stable job for... personal reasons, and now I have all this free time to entertain my inner demons instead.

But that's not why I'm having existential crisis. I've always thought that I don't really belong there. We have different values and I'm trying to pursue something else entirely. I did my best at work, and yet it didn't work.

I keep a jar full of tea variants in my room. Tonight I feel like brewing Jasmine Green Tea.

As I take my sips, I'm thinking about a lot of things. About what have been happening, what will be happening, what I want, what I think I want, how I can separate the things I really want from the things I thought I want, that kind of stuff.

I have a hundred of things that I want to write about. I have a list of writing ideas and prompts, neatly organized in a spreadsheet file with categories and such. I have big ambitions, but lack the resilience to chase them. I want to tell stories, but I'm afraid to be vulnerable. I keep having impostor's syndrome, yet still thinking I'm better than anyone else.

...

Wouldn't it be funny if tomorrow never comes?

And we would be stuck with whatever we have now, whoever we are now. Would we have any regrets? Or would we accept it with open arms, since it's what we've been waiting for?

November Update: Adult Version

Hi there, friends. I'm back.

I don't know if any of you is still reading this blog, this page, after long moments of hiatus and uncertainty. Seemingly no future promises or whatever. Hell, even I wouldn't know if I'm still alive at this point.

So much has been happening in the past... idk, year, I guess? That's just how long it has been since my last actual post.

👔 Part 1: The Day Job

I've been so "busy" with work that I haven't got any time to actually write. 

What I mean by "busy" is that since this is my first day job, I didn't know how mentally taxing and dis-inspiring a whole day of being cooped up in a windowless room for eight hours, only illuminated by dim white fluorescent lights, would be. It's insane how we let people live like this for so long.

At first, it was exciting, you know. I finally got a chance to prove myself, to be a functioning member of the society, putting my capabilities to use. But after like, two months, the excitement began to fade out, slowly, gradually. But it was still somewhat bearable, you know, still having a team of people around my age that I can collaborate with, and I still could steal an hour or two to open up my Google doc and write random stuff.

But then the *shift* happened. Long story short, I got into something I thought I could learn to like, but ended up being exhausted and burnt out mentally. And that's why I decided to get out of there.

So during me not updating this blog, I've gotten a job, and I've planned to resign, all in the same span of time.

The job's not all bad, and I actually have a plan to enhance what I've learned from the workplace during my possible period of resume gap.

I think I'm still shocked about the reality of a day job, and I need some time to process it. My inner child has yet to accept this.

🛏 Part 2: The New Place

I moved to a living place that's only five minutes away, by walking, to my office.

It's not as good as my previous share-house, of course. But it's closer to my office, to the city center, to my boyfriend's place, and the traffic to get here isn't as bad. The room is pretty small, while I have plenty of stuff I've accumulated from almost ten years of living in Bandung. But they have a decent shared kitchen with proper counter and dining area.

Although, the most jarring thing is the internet connection. The signal is atrocious here, whether it's the wi-fi connection they provided with the room fee, or the mobile data connection. I've had my BBC Radio listening session interrupted many times during my first two weeks here, and two video conference calls where half an hour was just spent trying to fix the connection.

And even when I tried to tether on my mobile data, the signal's also terribly unstable. I don't know what prompted this, but this inconvenience was enough for me to want to get out of this place. I mean, after all, nowadays we need internet connection for everything. Even when I write, I need to access the Google docs from the cloud.

Sometimes I kind of regret moving out from my previous share house, but I'm reminded of other types of convenience that this new place offered, ones that I took into consideration when I decided to move. I just didn't account for the shitty internet connection, since I assumed all living places now offer at least decent internet feature.

🏋️‍♂️ Part 3: The Gym

I go to the gym now. It's uncanny.

I get on a treadmill to do fast-walking and running. It's highly adjustable. I could run however fast I'd like to, without actually going anywhere, without having to face unpredictable terrain or traffic.

It's awesome. It's the perfect introvert workout.

I know I said I hated running, but it's only because I never tried workout before, and I usually pushed my limit before my body got accustomed to the movement. Now I know to just take it easy, and it's going pretty well so far. I didn't really need to go fast like an athlete. I have to play the long game, make it sustainable.

Since it's my first time going to the gym, my program consisted of building up stamina and muscle conditioning. Essentially what I do is warming up by running on the treadmill, then do some muscle workouts for my arms and abs for almost an hour.

The first two meetings with my PT was hell-ish. I got delayed onset muscle soreness (DOMS) where I couldn't move my arms and back without "ouch"-ing every single time. Even going to the toilet was unbearable. Somehow it didn't make me falter to continue working out, though, I just found it kind of funny. What went on my mind was that "the pain is so much better than being bored at my job", somehow. I think I do have the tendency to enjoy physical exercises.

Now I'm on my second month of membership, and I have to say that I enjoy the process so far. I'm definitely more fit, physically, and I'm growing lean muscles. Just need to cut off those iced latte though!!

💺 Part 4: The Chair

Still in the spirit of physical wellbeing, I bought a new office chair for my new place.

I've always been complaining about my back and my posture. After a gym session in which I was reminded of my bad posture, and that I should puff out my chest more, I figured it was time for a more ergonomic choice for my everyday work - sitting and typing.

I bought a black office chair from Informa with hand rests. Of course I had to immediately refrain from wanting a gamer chair, since my room will be too small for that, and it will be unsuitable with the old rusty wooden small desk. So I bought a normal-looking office chair, with the wheelies and the adjustable back rest. 

It's amazing, really. A game-changer. I don't know why I didn't do this sooner.

What the new chair does is essentially shifting the focus of my room from my bed to my desk. Since the chair is highly adjustable and comfortable, I'm no longer resistant to sitting down to face my laptop. I can be more productive with my work, roll around my (small) room to get occasional water break, or roll to the mirror to do my makeup without getting up from my chair.

It has now become the centerpiece of my room, and I love it.

♨ Part 5: The Break

It's actually nice to take a little time off to acknowlegde everything that's been going on in my life so far.

I don't know what it is about working that gets me all worked up and forget about myself. 

Sometimes I feel like being adult makes me stupid. I need reminder to breathe, to stretch, to drink water, to keep in touch with my parents, to go outside and get a little bit of sunlight, etc etc. It's like I can't even maintain my own basic bodily needs without supervision, it's stupid.

What are we even chasing? Is it so important that we forget who we are, what we like, what we inherently need?

I could mark this off as a bad "stress management" or "time management", but I would rather blame it on the whole industrial revolution in general.

How would I have the spare time for a side passion project when after work all I want to do is sleep and not wake up? Spent mentally and physically, burnt out, uninspired, all for the kind of work where I'm not sure I could be something in.

I'm taking a break. Hopefully things could be better and more clearer for me.

Here's to a great end of year and whatnot.

Cheers,

T.

Radio Spotify

Finally, FINALLY! Spotify rolled up a new update that actually makes some sense.

I mean, who asked for goddamn pop-up info of an artist every time their song was playing on the desktop app? It’s an entire playlist full of their discography which I’ve been listening to for years, for God’s sake. The huge interruptive window really overshadowed the social feature that lets me stalk and silently judge my friends’ music taste – which, sometimes, can be a way for me to discover new music.

What the hell is this?

I’m a very passionate user of the streaming service, but sometimes I wonder what’s the thought process behind all these weird updates. Oh let me guess, one of those sophisticated longitudinal big data analyzed using predictive algorithms? What about you giving actual people a spot on your platform, just a pinch of that human touch, you know? Maybe feature some top-notch local playlist curator whose playlists do significant numbers instead of shoving only Spotify-made playlists up our throat whenever we try to find something new?

But I guess we did get the next good thing that takes actual people into consideration: The Spotify Jam.

It basically lets you listen to music on Spotify together, in real-time, with up to twenty people in the same session. One user would initiate the “Jam” feature, and a particular link will be open to share to your 20 friends or less.

I think I’ve tried out this feature several months ago with my partner, but only through a short-notice pop-up link, which I couldn’t really access other than that one time. I guess I was a “victim” of the A/B testing.

By the time I’m writing this, it’s still available on mobile apps only (what’s with desktop apps getting all the shitty updates anyway).

Based on our impromptu trial last week, the feature was going rather smoothly. The songs played on our respective devices with little to no delay to each other. When one of us skipped the song, it immediately also skipped on the other’s phone. When one of us changed the playlist, the other one also listened to the playlist. Etc etc.

It worked both ways, so not only one person can control the music and such. It worked for the two of us whose music taste overlapped and we listened with the same intention. I wonder if there would be chaos ensuing in extreme test cases like filling the whole Jam session with the maximum 20 users and having all of them fight for control over the music. My optimism guessed it would be too much hassle for the 20 people to connect through certain links just to troll (but I could be underestimating the internet culture).

So far we’ve used the feature to spice up one long-distance phone call when I was back home for the long weekend, and to listen together to a playlist we like while we hung out in a cafe (instead of the boring lo-fi ambience songs from a shitty speaker).

I still can’t come up with other possible use cases, though. I figured this is quite a niche feature that wouldn’t work unless you have friends or a partner that also shares the same music taste and willing to put in that extra effort to join via a link shared through other social media channels. Perhaps in the future we can directly join a friend’s listening session via Friend Activity feature? That’d be great.

Essence

It's been a while.

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.

I Want to Do It

It is indeed foolish to want to go back
To a place where your mind falls apart
To the dark times filled with hopelessness
Heavy sighs and endless abyss


But I long for the words to pour out of me
Like blood flowing from open wounds
All the rage and emotions manifested
Unto beautiful metaphor like nobody's business


I long for the sadness to well up inside me
Void so black it sucks my insides dry
Until I'm left with nothing but dusty ruins
A lifeless corpse with a name for itself


I crave for the soul to feel again
Wholeheartedly become one with the pain
Collecting misery to write upon
Lest I forget how to be human

I yearn the violent thumping inside my heart
Everything is stupid, everything is pointless
Yet when I pick up the pen, the ink is gold
And the lenses are rose-coloured


I want to do it
Even when I'm bleeding inside
Even when they tell me it's futile
Even when I have nothing to my name


I don't have the ears for speaking in tunes
I don't have the hands for drawing in sketches
I don't have the power to delegate my languages
All I have left are these strings of words


I'll etch them on the tree barks
Write them on paper sheets
Tattoo them on my scar marks
Type them sentences upon sentences


Let me soak in the moment
Fumbling around the tangled mess that is my wound
Raw, interrupted bleak picture of bliss
Just a shot at creating something beautiful

Wordling

I'm keeping a journal. I'm developing a routine. I'm trying to be functional.

I'm a human being.

My insanity, as they perceived, is merely a result of years of unhealthy life. My brain lacks the chemical it needs to live a "fulfilling life". Dopamine, serotonin, those things. Funny, isn't it? You'd think the world is irreparably damaged, only achievements would bring joy and meaning to your life, but it's actually just you missing a few sessions of workout that week.

Makes you think all those things we're constantly chasing are actually real.

Ah. Anyway. Since I've been diagnosed with a... sort of disorder, I've been instructed to take meds and apply healthier lifestyle. You know, things like regular workouts, healthier meals at regular intervals, and sufficient sleeping time. I've always underestimated the whole "healthy lifestyle" thing until it finally took a toll on my *mental* health. Guess Descartes was not exactly right when he proposed the duality of body and soul, but it's probably old news.

I still wanna transcend, though.

--

For years and years I've been living in insecurity and self-loathing. I figured the only way I could live a life of "me" that I could be proud of was to "create" a new one. or two. or more.

So there's an alter ego here, and another one somewhere else. I made them up, splitting myself into two, three, and more. Little Tays, Taffys, Titanias, Carreys, Grays, whatever. I named everything. They were me. They were bits and pieces of me. The cool one, the cute one, the aspiring one, the smart one, etc. Instead of accepting myself as a person with multifaceted personality, it's easier to just manage them separately as different people.

Living the stereotypes. Cool people can't be "uncool", right? And smart people can't "make bad decisions" because they're supposed to be smart! The complexity and dynamics of human nowadays are too difficult to handle. We should just accept people as our ideas of them, not who they really are (allegedly).

Everyone's a liar anyway.

--

Violence was never the answer. 

That's why, even though I was hurt, I was bleeding inside and out, I never, even ONCE dreaming of laying a hand on him. I didn't even have the heart to confront him about it. About anything, really.

I wanted to keep it beautiful.

So beautiful it was, but only in my head. It was never real.

There's a part of me that wished I could be deplorable enough to just be satisfied with the imagination of slapping the shit out of him. Literally. Palm on cheek. On head. Until he falls down. So I can kick him. Over and over. But it was never quite there. I couldn't put a face on it. Not his, anyway.

Or maybe I just have shit imagination. I don't know.

--

Were the alter ego not enough? I laid on my back, wondering. The lights were out, only glints of fluoroscent stickers reflecting outside lights above my head gave me a sense of vision. Once I was rather accustomed to it, I could sometimes tell whether it's only 11 PM or already 3 AM. There's a sense of dread, stillness, and hushed silence that just hit different after 2 AM.

Easy on the narration, girl, this is not a Murakami novel.

Alright, sorry. Where was I. I was laying on my back, reminiscing the (seemingly) good old days.

The way the conversation goes. The way he awkwardly laughs at my joke because he didn't seem to get it but he got the gist that I was joking anyway. The way his hands tucked into his pockets as he walked over to pick me up from lab.

Was any of that real or am I just being delusional again? 

Sometimes I forgot whether the meds helped me clear my head so I remembered the past better or they just lured me into the thought of a sweet memory so I was spared the misery of the bitter truth.

My phone buzzed again. I laid still. 

It's never going to be him anyway.

--

"What are you trying to say?" He asked puzzingly. I stayed silent. I didn't even know the answer.

"Okay, let's just... slowly back up..." He continued, "...and try to develop each of this piece one by one? See, there's potential here, and there. Almost everything. But you have to keep it coherent!"

I know. "I'll try." I nodded sheepishly, "Which one do you think I should go with, first?"

"Just pick at random." He sighed as he slumped back into his office chair, "Or follow your mood. I know mood is everything to you."

"Yes." I put down the tablet on the desk, beaming a smile at him, "Right now I'm in the mood for sushi."

"When are you ever not in the mood for sushi?" He smiled, looking tired. His eyes were almost red, and I could see sleepiness written all over his face. He was almost not paid enough for this, not that he was paid anyway.

"You know I'm kinda stumped right now..." I hesitated, "...mentally."

He went silent for a while. He grabbed his phone and started typing something up there, stopped as he glanced at me. "The usual?"

"Three hours or so."

Few more types, then he locked the device and put it down beside the tablet. "Granted."

I locked the door.

"Table or sofa?"

--

Beguile;

verb

to persuade, attract, or interest someone, sometimes in order to deceive them

Am I being deceived? Oh, the harsh reality! The falling side of falling in love! The humanity!

"You're laughing now, that's good." She chuckled, "Those days you were practically a walking corpse, girl."

"I really don't remember," I sighed, "but I hope I never have to get through that again."

"So you're really okay now?"

Am I?

"Yeah, don't worry about me."

But she will. Worry about me. Like she does.

--

Alright, alright. This is getting nowhere. I'm just doing a "pulp fiction" type of writing where I just write without thinking. The plot should write itself, it's okay for it to be trash, and whatever's written is probably anything I'm worried about.

Except there seems to be no plot, lmao.

I'm really confused now. I have all these ideas to write about, but there are like TONS and my mood doesn't seem to be supportive of starting to write any of those :/

These are the trash types of writing I should be putting on twitter or whatever, supposedly.

A-

I'll come back with better drafts.

Diam Sejenak

It's rather hard to pinpoint exactly my current emotion because it's a combination of many different conjectures.

I'm excited to have been offered a new job, nervous about the start of a seemingly "new life" (and the work itself, whether I'd do well and such), proud of myself to have had overcome the process and all, and now I'm still... expecting, anticipating. I've already said yes to the offer, but now they're hanging me out to dry. I haven't signed anything yet. Maybe tomorrow.

It just amazed me how quickly I'm bouncing away from my previous state of "eagerness" to become merely numb. Before this period of job recruitment that I'm following, I was struck with the sense of being eager with life. This was apparent in the way I wanted and actually wasn't hesitant to try new things. I was empowered with some sort of "agency"; an example is whereas I was bored, I would just get off my arse and take a walk outside. Doesn't matter where, I'd just grab my jacket and walk because I NEED the walk, while the rest of the thoughts can follow later. Usually I would overthink the act of just walking outside to various extent -- where'd I go anyway?; should I bring my stuff?; it's too steep and hilly in my neighborhood; etc. etc.

Gosh, it's only been like five days and I miss her already.

I suspect this whole job recruitment process was so abrupt and quick-paced that I was finished with it all before fully comprehending how I'm feeling about it. As if I was supposed to be nervous, but there wasn't  even enough time to. The announcement for the first assessment was sent to me less than 24 hours beforehand. Then, only one day lasted before I was called for HR interview, and only two days afterwards I was informed to attend user interview conducted in the next half an hour! I was out eating with friend during this, just enjoying my time, then I had to rush home for the online meet. Lmfaoo.

It was going so quick that I didn't even realize what I'm feeling. So now I'm just floating on the current, anticipating the next big thing.

In the meantime, I'm dumbfounded from my own projects. I already had huge writing (and reading?) projects set that I was ready to take during my (pessimistic take of another year of) unemployment. I was almost too ready to be chronically unemployed, just living my romantic life as an aspiring writer. Then, this storm unexpectedly hit. Wasn't particularly a bad storm, but there's still that sense of "my plan isn't going well because of these... disturbances" that made me unable to enact the routines from my initial schedules. 

Sure, logically, I can attempt to write my piece or something during the free time in between the recruitment process, but mentally I'm still unable to do so. I'm still learning to be flexible, but I'm not quite there yet.

What I'm saying is, it probably should have been expected that I'm feeling this way - numb. I had a plan, all of a sudden the plan was interrupted by another course of alternative plan, and now I'm gonna have a whole new life ahead of me only in the span of one week. (Might be exaggerating for some people, because it's not like I'm going to work abroad in a new country with an entirely new identity, but still) I should just accept this feeling, and pat myself lightly on the back (not too much!) for getting through with it all.

It's hard to actually be "productive" during the free time since I'm still processing it all. It's fine. It's an adventure, as long as your heart is beating.

You'll have time for your writing later. 

Bah.

It's all shit! I wanted to scream. I wanted to rip the manuscript up, but I can't. One, because it's all digital and written on word processing software. Second, there's no manuscript. Just pieces of shitty writing I compiled in one file. What the hell am I even writing about, and for whom?

I thought I'd do it just fine. What went wrong? I contemplated. I planned it all. I even wrote the outline for them all. 

It's all wrong. I should've strike while the iron was hot. The ideas were written down, but the intensity of the excitement and emotion that shrouds the entire atmosphere of the writing has died down. It's easy to remember what you wanted to write about, but it's hard to replicate the hatred, lust, sadness, or happiness that should have become the foundation of it all.

That's why Ray Bradbury told us not to think when writing. In quickness, there is truth.

Don't "jot down the ideas", unless you are really busy when the inspiration hits.

But I was just writing the outlines so I don't end up rambling! I opposed.

Yea. But just because you have a fridge, doesn't mean you can buy the veggies today and leave them out to be cooked on an indefinite future date. I did that mistake a lot, and guess what? I ended up never cooking again these days.

You and your analogies of writing... You say writing is like swimming, writing is like exploring a jungle, writing is like morning poop, and this? 

Postponing writing is like rotting your groceries in a fridge, I know it sounds stupid when you put it that way. Writing is just very multifaceted and personal to me, I see it in all my everythings.

So... What do we do now?

I guess we just write every "now", not "later"?

Whatever Floats Your Boat

I was on a drive with my boyfriend when I uttered how much I felt like a loser just because I was getting excited from taking a new route, and he said:

"Hey, it's fine. Life is about making stupid things as exciting as possible."

And he'd be right. Why should I feel bad for myself over this little thing? Since when did I accidentally invalidate my own feeling instead of embracing it? That might explain why I've been feeling like a miserable clusterfck these past days.

I have developed the habit of weaving myself a web of routine for me to stick my butt in throughout my life. I have easily left my engine running on autopilot, and sleep in the back seat. Having a routine is good and all, but when you begin asking yourself "what's the point?", you've probably outgrown the initial situation that you created the routine in.

And as an adult, I reckon that routine is hardly evitable. Still, I'm too stubborn to want to give in to the sense of boredom that could stop me from being curious or excitable. Still, also, it's difficult to maintain a sense of excitement when you're perpetually bored out of your mind, brain shutting down every now and then because there seems to be nothing new under the sun.

That's why I would quote him on that, a philosophy so silly yet so powerful. It's the little things, of course!

So what if I get a little giddy over just visiting a new supermarket, just going out for a drink in a new cafe, or listening to a new band, or just writing new posts on social media? The key is to find that stupid thing excitable.

And it's a good thing that I have someone close to remind me of how exciting the little things can be.

Spiraling Out

I took a deep dive again after a long time of hiatus. The strong smell of chlorine, saltiness of tears and steely... blood? Is that blood? It looks red, but I couldn't tell amidst all the water around me. I could feel the pressure tightening on me as I dove deeper. I tried to eyeball the depth of the pool, but the bottom pit was invisible.

Perhaps it was deeper than I remember?

It's been a while since I last went swimming. My limbs didn't work like they used to, but muscle memory kicked in one way or another. I remembered to take a long breath before diving. I remembered having to minimalize the rotation of my body. I needed this, I told myself, but I already knew the reason why I dove in the first place.

The lungs began to revolt. Air, it screamed. My legs and arms almost went numb, but at least I saw the bottom of the pool. Looks cold, desolate. Perfect.

It was only after the body began to relax itself that it started to make sense. When I was one with the water. A sense of surrender. A relief.

When my eyes fluttered closed. Black out. The words began to form itself. I was in too deep. Drowning. Floating. Whichever one was the truth, I felt both beyond my senses.

In the depth of my sorrow and self-wallow, I found the old-age demon. She's still there, looming. We almost forgot about her. And diving deep is the only way I would find her again.

---

They found me again, tearful, one hand almost reaching the box of sharp stationery, one hand hugging the speaker blasting my comfort playlist. The last thing I remember was journaling on my bed, thinking about my past and my future. I guess a certain kind of memory kicked in. Or perhaps I was intoxicated with the desire to write morbid things once again, after a while.

Why haven't you written again? She asked me. After being sane for the most part of my last few years, I outgrew the alter egos. I outran my demon. But at what cost?

The pieces have lost their edges. It's no longer jigsaw puzzles of enigma, just boring tiles of disposable pulps. The metaphors have lost their complexities. Just mere analogies as flat as pancakes under a truck. I gave in to the harsh realities, blending in with the faceless mucks. Just another replacable cog in the machine. I'm dying inside, and the antidepressants turned my brain away to the other side. See, we're being productive today. Great work!

I... I'll write again. I replied, meekly. She smiled approvingly, then disappeared.

I'm left with the messy bedroom, speaker still blasting, taken away from me. Worried faces surrounding me. I'm grateful, but at the same time, I wonder, how did I become such a mess? 

A dangerous dive, that one. Next time I won't be so careless.

Fitter. Happier. More productive.

Now that I know she's still alive, will it resurface this time?

Mancing Mania (Mantap)

   

Kurasa semua orang tahu konsep memancing. Ada yang memancing di sungai, empang, atau bahkan di laut lepas. Tongkat pancing disiapkan, benang pancing dilebarkan, dipasangi kail dan pelampung, dan umpan disisipkan di kail. Kemudian benang dipanjangkan hingga kail dan umpan jatuh di titik air yang dituju, sementara tangan memegangi tongkat pancing. Menunggu ikan memakan umpan.

Aku kira mencari kerja itu seperti memancing -- Kok nggak ada yang nyangkut?!

Nggak, kok. Maksudku sih, selagi belum ada ikan yang nyangkut, might as well enjoy yourself. Biasanya bapak-bapak memancing sambil nyebat dan minum kopi. Kalau kamu seperti aku mungkin bisa sambil dengerin lagu, atau baca buku, sambil sekali-sekali mengantisipasi gerak-gerak pelampung.

Karena kalau cuma nungguin jatuhnya malah frustasi, jengkel sendiri...

Tentu saja, probabilitas nangkap mungkin bisa diupgrade dengan mengganti joran yang lebih mutakhir, kail yang lebih bagus, atau umpan yang sesuai. Sebenarnya yang paling penting sih mungkin tahu dulu mau mancing ikan apa. Diteliti dulu biasanya ikan jenis itu sukanya umpan apa, dan bagaimana pola kegiatannya. Lalu menyesuaikan umpan dan perlengkapan serta perilaku memancing sesuai dengan ikan yang mau ditangkap.

Memang sepertinya aku tidak suka memancing.

Lulusan anyar perguruan tinggi setelah melayangkan surat riwayat hidup ke perusahaan.

(Vol. 14, 1977/#DoraemonHariIni Januari 2023) pic.twitter.com/glRY9z8Rkk

— Doraemon Hari Ini (@DoraemonHariIni) January 9, 2023