Social Cuts

 Prime steak of chatbox. Virtual interaction. We're in a room, somehow I'm alone.

...What am I talking about?

Am I just, not ready? Things that should have been easy but I don't have the energy to do, things that used to excite me but now makes me feel nothing more than a speck of nostalgia, things that could have been done but I decided to bail on instead.

Moonwalking backwards and proud of it, discomplishment is a virtue.

I used to keep a part of my child self intact within me because I want her to watch me grow into someone she could be proud of, but now I don't know if I could silence her crying. I bet she must be really disappointed.

I thought I was getting better? What's wrong? Is reality finally sinking in? After all this time?

Shoutout to everyone doing anything with their life and succeeding in it. I don't even know if I want to get out of bed this morning. Ungrateful bastard.

Another Start?

Hello and happy new year everyone! I know this year haven't been... the same, with the pandemic and all. I'm not going to say it's bad, or it's good, but it's... definitely bad. What am I trying to say? I'm not cut out for introduction like this.

Anyway. Here I am start writing again not because of a new year's resolution or anything like that, but because of a blog post by one of my twitter following (speaking of which, this is such an obscure term since you can't even define 'following' without some context of what twitter is, and saying that he's a 'friend' could be an overstatement because our ties are not mutual, I follow his account and know of him through his posts but he doesn't even follow me or know about my existence so yeah). I followed this guy because of our (previously) mutual interests in the MCR fandom (whoa such a long time ago). 

There was a phase in my twitter account, where all I use to decide whom to follow was through their identities as a fan of whatever it is I obsessed back then. So I followed people who liked the same bands, TV shows or anime fandom as I did. And that brought upon a strange phenomenon, because they eventually grew out of that fanbase-ridden-identity phase and their online presence gradually changed from something akin to @-MCR_man into @[RealName], with posts that initially were about our mutually favorite bands becoming more of their personal views and daily experiences.

During this 'transition' period, of course there were 'selections', since probably their gradually changed online persona doesn't match my liking. Maybe they were a bit too vocal in their obscure opinion, maybe they bring too much negativity, or maybe they retweet about BTS a little too many times (hey it happens). So some had to go away, but some stayed. The stayed ones, weirdly, I developed what the scholars in social science called 'weak ties'. In essence, I have come to know these people by sidling in that small gateway of 'previously-liking-the-same-thing' and ended up knowing their education background, what they're doing for a living now, their other hobbies, their other favorite kinds of music, their other social media, and their blogs. Sometimes I get invested in their opinions, I look forward to their writing, I get curious of their current interests, and so on. But to say that they are my friends? I don't know, they might feel a bit weird since they don't even know me.

Anyway. I got sidetracked again. I started writing because of this post. How browsing too much twitter is feeding into the 'reactive' part of the brain and distract us from actual writing. The micro-blogging nature of this social media makes the flow of information so quick that it traps us into the 'fear of missing out', and that we hardly think logically to comprehend the vast information. So I'm not here to preach the 'danger of social media' or to summarize that entire blog post, I just want to say that he makes a good point, at least for me.

As a (formerly frequent) blogger, and self-proclaimed 'writer', of course it's a problem when I suddenly stop being excited or committed to writing, whether it's for recreational purpose, cathartic output, or a form of how I make my living. I admit, I do browse twitter a little too much nowadays, just to avoid the heavy burden of thinking (even the trivial ones), I tweet in hopes for any interaction from my friends, and scroll endlessly just for that tiny chance that 'something interesting might appear on timeline that I can react on it'. I've become something like an addict. And that's a problem.

I've abandoned the thought of writing for God knows how long. I've given up on writing as a catharsis because I never knew what to write anymore. I don't know what are my thoughts anymore. I don't know who I am, and what I'm trying to express.

This difficulty of getting myself in the headspace to write is also a strong contributor to my addiction towards Twitter. If I were to sit in front of the laptop screen for two hours to write something of substance - three pages of fiction, academic paper, anything, really - I would spend most of the time scrolling twitter without realizing it. This gives me a false sense of productivity, because I would feel like I'm attempting to focus but I mostly just divert my focus because brainstorming is too hard.

Of course I'm not saying that Twitter did all this, I'm merely proposing that Twitter is a symptom of something far more deep-rooted in me. The longing of instant gratification. The avoidance of thinking. The fear of missing out. I'm working out what the actual disease is, but knowing the symptom, I should probably try to minimize the chance of the symptom turning into something more fatal, right?

Anyway. That was a long-arse rambling about me justifying my effort to make 2021 a Twitter-less custom. I'm still figuring out whether I want to prioritize this year to be a 'blog-more' period or 'endless-scrolling-less' period. Hopefully both.

Thank you for reading and hope you all have a wonderful year ahead!

Cheers. T.

Addiction to Self-Actualization

As per usual routine, this piece is written when I'm supposed to be working on something else (with more specified deadline).

Lately, I've been deprived of meaningful connection. I snapped. I keep having terrible mood swings. Nothing is exciting anymore. Workload is all burdening, when it can be lighthearted and fun.

I printed sheets over sheets of paper. Scientific literatures to review. In printed form because my attention span is just horrible over the monitor. I installed extensions to block distracting websites. I used pomodoro timer just because. I tried being efficient. I tried immersing myself in the work. It succeeded, for a moment, before the timer stops and I produced a 9-pages paper for a task that required minimum 15 pages.

For a moment. I took a breath, and it was all just... gone? Like a thin layer of mist, huffed and dissolved into the air.

I stressed out over a week for... that? Hundreds of pages and hours of indecisive design for that? For a half-assed, half-baked (supposedly) academic writing? And when it's done, I won't even know if it's good or not?

I know I did bad. I tried promising myself I would revise. But when deadline passed, it seems like it's already a lost cause. I didn't even know if my revision would do me any good. I didn't even know if that work would do me any good.

Sometimes I don't know why I feel upset all the time when it's something that I chose for myself. Maybe because I know deep down it's not a wise decision, maybe because I didn't know it would be this hard for my brain to function, maybe it's because it's apparently not as fun as how it initially seemed, maybe I strayed too far from my earlier purpose.

Ironically, I found the answer in the brief moment of breathing after that past-deadline tension, with the underlying anxiety of another upcoming big wave.

I've been deprived of meaning.

I've been deprived of meaning because I haven't been creating something.

I looked at the pile of papers I've printed, post-it notes sticking all over the place, highlighter of various color atop (what could be) important sentences. I glanced at my manuscript, horrid incoherence over incoherence, glued together with half-baked words and last-minute pretension. I sighed. What's it all for, in the end?

I created it, but I wasn't proud of it. I spent hours and hours of sleepless nights just to make something that I don't even want to look at ever again. And I won't even know if it's correct, if it's satisfactory. It makes me mad, to know that I invested so much just for nothing. 

I know, I know it's a process. It's going to be a long process. Knowledge is intangible, I realize, and in the end learning is going to produce something in the long run. Maybe I'm just too impatient to wait.

One day I asked my friend, "what do you do when you're bored / tired?" to which she promptly answered with, "work".

"But what if it's the work you're tired of?"

"Then find another work, don't just do one thing."

It sounds weird at first, but I got her point. I know there's something missing in me because I've been doing only this one work of relentlessly following class and writing papers (okay not one work but it's one string of sequential work, you get my drift). Back then, I could still be following class and writing fiction / contemplation, to which I can say that I created and liked (forget how shitty it was).

I need another work. Not work "work", but probably, something with goals and output. Not for long term, but something, anything I can look at and say "yeah I made that". But I know I've been too tired to do anything nowadays. The schedule won't even let me breathe before bombarding me with other series of tasks. I even began thinking about uploading something to instagram after quite a long time of hiatus, you know, just so I have a digital artefact of my existence without doing so much.

I know I always say that. I had plenty of side projects that I want to do, when in the end nothing gets done. But maybe all this stress will finally make my brain snap and realize that there's no better time than now.

It's kind of ironic that I always have these kinds of meta-realization when I have urgent things to do. Maybe putting in actual works always gets me thinking if it's all worth it, and if it's going to do something for me in the end. 

I just hope that next time, I would be wise enough to understand what's meaningful to me before it gets too late. 

Test Drive

I want to drive down the southern coast and never be seen again.

I want to feel the nightly wind blow against my hair as my fingers tap the steering wheel to the rhythm of How to Leave Town tracks. I want to smell the ocean air, hear the thundering friction of my car wheels against the empty road, and watch the dim streetlights lining up the sides of my course.

Driving was always such a hassle in the city road. Traffic was everywhere, motorcycles would impudently cut your lane with no warning, and I especially hated how I got honked after only 0.01 seconds of green light. I thought machinery was invented to ease the work of mankind, not spawning petty problems like this.

But then again, perhaps as human needs get progressively fulfilled, we tend to seek for new problems to solve. Our goal has shifted from the survival of a species to that self-actualization of an individual.

And that's precisely why I'm here.

Either to actualize myself through this lonely journey, or to run away from the entity that used to be myself that I projected onto society.

I don't smoke.

So when I stared longingly into the darkness of the night sea, I did that with a chupa chups in my mouth instead of red marlboro. My fingers twirled idly on the thin stick of my lollipop. I waited for the current song to end before turning the car stereo off, letting my ears soaking in the sound of crashing waves

..and footsteps.

"You're so cute when you try to act tough." He joined me in leaning against the right side of the car, facing the ocean.

"I'm not acting tough." I held out the candy when I spoke, not sparing him a glance.

"Sure," I could hear him chuckling and inching closer to me. An arm around the back of my neck, the palm clutching the edge of my shoulder. I rested my head on his chest and we stayed like that for quite a moment.

For a moment....

A moment....

How long would the world be waiting for us? Does it ever, anyway? Or was this the world that's actually waiting for us, and now that we were finally here, it's opening up its arms to welcome us? Everything just seemed so perfect, so comforting, so peaceful, so forgiving.

The trip was initially a one-man plan. Drive away, don't be seen. Take a break. Breathe. Observe. Reflect. Find yourself.

Instead, I found him first.

"Take me with you." His voice was stern.

"You do realize where I'm going, right?"

"You could take me to Antarctica for all I care."

"I'm going nowhere."

"Maybe that's what I need as well."

Long silence. He waited still. I took my time to think.

"Are you sure?"

"Never been so sure."

I gave in to the touch of his calloused fingers against the cold of my cheek and the tip of my chin. The hand that used to hover around mine so much with uncertainty, now in its definitive physical proof tracing the shape of my face. I did the same, from the side crinkle of his eyes, the crook of his nose, and the scruffy side of his upper neck.

Don't ask me if I ever ate metal, but he tasted like one. My senses soon were engulfed with the mixture of salty breeze, strawberry candy sweetness, faded fragrant musk and saliva. The moon was still hiding, the streetlights were still faint, the wave sounds were still deafening, and the car engine was still off.

The stillness was like an oasis in this ever-crowded world, and I had to bite to make sure none of this is a dream I would be ruthlessly yanked away from.

"Careful there." He chuckled, "Don't bleed me out too much."

“So you don’t mind bleeding a little?” I smirked.

He laughed. Just the way I had always liked it. It was nice.

So we smile and embrace until we don't know who we are. ♪

"What's the previous lyrics- your head doesn't tell you-?" 

"Doesn't tell you to kill yourself ♪."

"That's morbid."

"He was just being explicit."

The music continued keeping us company in the late of tonight. The street was vacant, save for a few trucks and generic compact-type cars that passed me by. I stepped on the gas pedal a little deeper, making sure to put more caution on the brake under my left foot. My former driving instructor's words rang inside my head.

You're very careful with your driving. I wouldn't worry about your safety as a driver.

I didn't even want to be too cautious. I wanted to let loose. I wanted to escape myself. But I also wanted to drive slow and enjoy the night. Especially with him beside me, what's there to rush for?

I insisted on driving again because I had to keep my autopilot brain somewhat functioning. He was not supposed to be a variable in this soul-searching operation, but then again maybe I was not in his initial plan either. I'd like to think that I was the one catalyzing his intention into action, or perhaps he was just curious of what I would be doing and wanted to accompany me because he liked me that much.

He was no stranger. It wasn't as if I found him on the street one day, hunched over behind the trashbin of an alleyway, bruised and battered like a stray puppy in a rough neighborhood. Nothing that dramatic. After years of building up friendship, he had known me close enough to decipher the fact that I was going on this crazy secret supposedly lonely trip. And I thought I knew him like the back of my hand, yet I failed to predict this unlikely alliance.

I glanced sideways at him looking outside the passenger seat window intently. I noticed he moved his head in sync with the tune. The slightly ajar window gave way to light breeze that swept the upper part of his hair. He seemed to be preoccupied in his inner thoughts. Or maybe he was just familiarizing himself with my music.

♪ But I still felt the eyes upon me, so I drove away.

I focused on the road once again. Dawn was almost arriving.

I Don't Want to Go

The clock is ticking, like it always has been. For quite some time, I dreamt about it being halted. One unmoving minute, when everything is just silence, stillness, and I could stare at your dark brown eyes, the scruffy haircut you said you'd curse your barber for, and fading acne blemishes around your chin that you hated so much, for as long as I could.

"I'm scared." I said to myself, retreating further to the corner of the dark room. That's where I stayed for the rest of the week.

"You're stubborn," He remarked, "You're hopeless."

"I know," I replied, closing the text window and slipping into unconsciousness.

I only see you through my screen now. I know, aren't you worried? It irks me to be honest, that I don't care in the least. All I do now is crying to depressing music and eating biscuit crumbs for lunch.

I haven't felt like this in ages. This time it seems slightly different, as if I'm enveloped by some soft focus filter. I can't think clearly. I don't speak anymore. I'm lost.

It's kind of a reflex. Fight or freeze. I did the latter a few times during my early years, and it sort of becomes a habit that embedded in me. I close the doors, shut the blinds, and get under the cover, hoping for it all to go away. But they never do. They only waited, patiently, relentlessly, until I realized it's too late.

I'm a brick. My brain is a brick. Yet, my feet... they keep on wanting to run. But the only thing I'm running is out of time.

"Why are we like this," He inquired, less of a question and more of a matter-of-fact statement. His shirt was wet from my tears, and he stared into my tear-stained eyes.

"I- no idea," I replied, more of a whimper and less of an answer. We don't always have the answer, or rather- we don't always need one.

That doesn't mean I'm not curious, though.

"You're just confused," She remarked with a professional voice. I knew she's done this many times.

I was convinced there was something wrong with me. I don't buy this whole 'growing up' and 'maturing' bullshit. I wanted to incline to the possibility that I could be a special case, they would want me as a test subject on human psyche, and that my brain was wired significantly different than others.

But no. I was just another number in the statistics of quarter-life crisis, denying to bloom into adulthood and got stuck in the loop of golden old days' memories instead.

For a moment, I thought I could accept that verdict. I just had to do better. I just had to switch my gears in a more positive mode. I just had to talk to more people, and try more things. I could do it. I was normal. My brain works fine. I was fine.

But like I said, they never go away. Only waiting... patiently... relentlessly...

I was exhausted the first time. I didn't know what made me think I could do it the second time. Unarmed, unpacked, and unprepared even. It's looming closer, and I can't run away anymore.

Scarlet

She tasted like bleeding gum and salt.

I wondered if anyone ever told her that. She just smiled, the happiest I've had seen her in a while. I couldn't bear to make rude remark in fear of hurting her, even when intended as a joke, as we usually did.

I wanted to insult her. I wanted to hear her snap a witty comeback and then we would laugh together. I wanted to.

But the glimmer in her eyes just deprived me of any sarcasm I've ever had lying around the back of my tongue. My throat went dry and my arms went numb. I just didn't have the guts to say things. I just didn't have the heart to move.

I never thought of honesty as something akin to picking a scab. You're digging an old wound, and end up scarring more. There was a hint of disgust, and you're trying to cover it. I didn't expect there would be screaming, though.

I only wanted to help her.

I only wanted her not to be sad all the time.

In my argument, you can't be happy without bearing a little sadness every now and then. You can't have meaning without struggles. You can't have a good thing without enduring bad things beforehand.

Can't have a good relationship without a bad guy looming around?

She just told me I was a hypocrite, and then my mouth tasted like bleeding gum as my cheek felt the hot sting from the palm I've always cherished.

The first thing I noticed about her was her eyes. How they look so different under the night sky we used to stroll together in, under the neon lights of our secret hiding place, under the dim lights of our favorite coffee place, and under the one white light of her bedroom lamp. She wasn't exactly the most cheerful person, but she was the brightest of sun for the brief moments we chat about her favorite bands, her pipe dreams, and her handmade tattoo.

One day the eyes went dark. A void nowhere close as a night sky, or the coffee she liked to make me.

Underneath the shade of the sole lamp of her bedroom, she looked at me like she saw someone else. Or something else. I knew she was tense, yet she wasn't moving. Her skin was pale. I went closer in hope of cupping her cheeks and telling her that I was there for her, whatever it was, but something was between my hand and her flesh. Cold. Steely.

I guess that's precisely the problem. I was there for her.

I never thought she would look that stunning in red.

It was about time the men in blue came knocking on my door. By then I was already packed up, wrote my sibling a note to take care of whatever little I've left behind, and sat on the dining room table. They started questioning me, and I admitted to what they went here for. The last thing I wanted to do was wasting more people's time.

When they asked about 'the motive', I just told them what I thought to myself all the time.

I only wanted her not to be sad all the time.

I heard electrocution would leave the taste of steel in my mouth, so when I see her again in the next life I hoped to tell her the sensation of what I sent her away with.

I'm learning to walk as I watched my friends sprint towards the distance.

There was no finish line on my sight, but I reckon they see it, because otherwise, why would they be running?

I keep wondering if there's any way for me to become a professional swimmer without even touching the pool or getting my suits wet.

Sometimes I wonder how it feels like to touch something you can't even begin to fathom the existence of.

It pondered a lot of things, this brain of mine. It was once curious. It was once a proud child prodigy.

Right now I'm no longer a ponderer. No longer a thinker. No longer a writer.

I don't want to try anymore. There's no point.