A Tale of Four Cats

Hiiii, long time no see yah!

I've been quite preoccupied with college and other... uh... struggles. Writing has not been on my mind for a while now, and I have yet to find the actual explanation as to why that happens, as much as I'd like to know it myself :/ Perhaps it's a post for another day, perhaps I will never find the answer... But right now I want to write something about a light and easy topic.

That's right, ladies and gentlemen (and probably my non-binary friends), today we're talking about my CATS! Well, technically I will be the one talking... or rather, more technically, I will be writing... Anyway!

I've been home for... well, can't say holiday, because it's supposed to be the final year of my masters' study, and I need to work on my thesis alongside assisting research projects. I was feeling cramped up all alone in my dorm room because I can't even go to campus yet, since... you know, the pandemic. So I thought I'd go home for a change in atmosphere, and perhaps I can work better since basic food necessity will be practically taken care of. Heh.

One thing (among many others, of course) that I miss about my home is the cats. Okay, so maybe four things. Or not things- creatures- anyway... It's kinda a bummer that I can't keep a cat pet in my dorm room, since I get really high dose of dopamine by petting them and being around them. But then again, I wonder about the feasibility of actually keeping one, since I like to go on a spontaneous walk on my own every so often, and sometimes there's no telling when I'd be home. That's why I was feeling pretty comfortable with the non-committal arrangement of my previous feline companion in my previous dorm house: I feed him in front of my room, he stays to hang out for a short nap or play with my drum sticks or listen to my ramblings, then he goes back out for whatever business a wild stray cat needs to attend. And that's why Devira and I called him bujines (representative of the word 'business').

So, anyway, the cats at home. Currently we have four cats co-existing in the household, each with their own quirky character and personalities.

1) Joan de Arc

Actually, we only named her Joan, albeit getting inspiration from the character. She's a... senior cat, I think? We found her, I think about 7 years ago, hanging around in front of our previous house. She is a tricolor female mixed breed, and we thought she got lost from her actual owner, since we never saw a cat like her in the neighborhood, and she seemed to be too pretty to be a mere stray. We waited for days, though, all the while feeding her and letting her sleep and hang in our front porch. Then it was basically a non-verbal cue that she was our cat ever since. She was already a teenage (?) cat when we found her, so now she's really old for a cat.

Joan is the most well-behaved cat in our pack, at least according to my mother's judgement. When she first joined our household, she already knew how to pee in the toilet without us teaching her (actually supporting our hypothesis that she had an owner, but by then mom had grown fond of her). Even now, she's the only cat we let inside for the night because we know she can take care of herself.

She's a picky eater, though. She only likes certain kinds of cat foods, and sometimes we had to guess. At first we bought our cats Friskies and she seemed to like it, but then one day she just didn't feel like eating then we figured out that it's only supposed to be Friskies Seafood. The one she didn't like had chicken in it, so we settled with the seafood. Then, we tried out a cheaper food like Me-o, but she only liked the salmon flavor. Now we have Bolt, but she only likes the round-shaped pellet ones :')

She really loves grooming, and I think she spends 80% of her life (besides sleeping and eating) cleaning herself, or cleaning our other cats (if she likes them). The other 20%? Neck scratches, back scritches, and flirting with male cats. We had her neutered, but somehow she still likes to beg attention of male stray cats (and somehow they're always the ugliest or the wildest kind of stray) when we let her outside. Most of the time she runs outside when we accidentally leave the door open, but she always runs back home with her skippy steps and jangling bell of her cat collar.

The sweetest part is she seems to acknowledge if I come home after leaving for quite a long time for college. When I open the front door with my luggage she would run to me for neck scratches and back pet :)

2) Nestor

A domestic shorthaired cat (or kucing kampung) with jetblack fur all over his body except the feet part, so it looks like he wears white socks. We named him after the butler character in Tintin since the black-white fur color combination resembles tuxedo. The second oldest cat in our household, we got him from my mother's friend when he was but a small lass who loved to play.

I could never bond well with Nestor, because he doesn't really like to be touched. When I try to pet him, he would always try to claw my hands. We all know that he is just playing when he's like that, but I still got scared because he's never got his nails clipped. So our interaction is kinda limited to just playing with cat toys or rope and me hoping he doesn't accidentally claw my hand.

He's the only cat that we constantly let outside, because 'no one's gonna take him anyway' says mother. That sounded a little harsh if you consider cat feelings as similar to human emotion, but mom's spitting facts. We already spayed him, but he still likes to go out and pick fights with other cats in the neighborhood (although he always lost lol). He would often come home bruised with claw mark spots on his fur. I don't know if it's a territorial thing or personality thing, but he barely stops doing this habit.

Right now he's on probation where he can't stay inside the house for more than 10 minutes without supervision, because he somehow keeps peeing in unexpected places, like beside the dining table, in our library room, or corner of TV room. They're always only small puddles of pees, but scattered all over the house :( We don't know what makes him do this, because he barely acts up (well there's the fights but he never bothers us otherwise). I don't know if this is his rebellious midlife crisis phase or he has a bladder problem (if you probably have an explanation for this pls let me know!).

3) Puyo

An orange, long-haired mixed breed (I don't know what breed but he's (?) long-haired lol) that we got from (also) a friend of mother's almost exactly one year ago in the form of a little orange cottonball. Naming him was quite the discussion, but we settled with a name originated from Puyol the captain of Barca but turn it into Puyo a local pudding brand for more cutesy pet feel to it, and it seemed like a more gender-neutral name.

Although, until now, I still can never be sure whether Puyo is a male or female cat. We keep checking Puyo's rear side but his furs are really long and obstructed our empirical investigation, and I don't want to get a criminal record for violating an animal, much more our own pet. So why do I keep referring to Puyo as a 'he'? Because he has a tendency to mate with some other stray (male) cats, he's an extremely active cat, and... it's kinda hard to explain, but over time the scruffs around his neck got bigger and he looks rather like a male lion, so eventually I just settled with identifying Puyo as male.

Puyo is a cold-blooded killer. When he was smaller (yeah, one year ago), he loved to play and would react to cat toys or simple cables, or finger wiggles, but now he doesn't settle less than actual, moving creatures. His checklist probably contains: gecko, dragonfly, hornets, fly, mice, roaches, birds, and other insects I can't identify. He doesn't eat them, he doesn't kill them. He just plays with them. Bits and pieces of gecko or roaches would be tattered on the floor before he got bored of the unmoving parts and leaves the crime scene, unfazed. He whines when he sees a gecko on the wall up real high and he can't reach it. He once jumped on dining table to catch a dragonfly, where he immediately got down after I yelled at him (although he eventually managed to munch the poor insect that its wings were torn out, its body slowly limping to lifelessness under Puyo's adorably irresistible paw).

Puyo's favorite pastime is hanging out in the backyard to hunt for small insects or just watch the birds fly low above his head (which he tries to hunt of course). Mom said we can't really grow herbs anymore since the insects and birds that used to help with pollination are all hunted down by this little killing machine. Wooden sticks that support the small papaya trees trying to grow are being used by this shithead to play or become a scratching post.

Puyo likes to join us in the dining table. Not that we put his food bowl on the table or anything, but rather he'd react to the sound of plates and spoons clinking when we eat. Two spoons into our dinner, and he would stride with his tails up to the side of dining table. We usually eat facing each other, and there's an empty seat beside either side of us, and Puyo would jump up on the chair beside whoever's eating, with his ultimate begging expression. We'd let him smell whatever we're having, and if he likes it we spare a little for him. But if we're eating fish, we'd better just shoo him outside to the backyard temporarily because he goes crazy for fish. Yesterday I had flame-grilled fish and both his right and left front claw just eagerly dig into my thigh seeing me chewing.

But, like all cats, he also likes to nap. He's the only cat mom lets inside the master bedroom to sleep in the corner beside the TV shelf. Mom likes to carry him around while scritching his neck, and he seems to love this too, and sometimes flutter his eyes closed in comfort. I, too, apply this technique every so often when I have the chance, because he's just so darn cute. He's the cat I like to cuddle the most because he's so soft and furry and cuddly and precious with those big black eyes and constant curious look on his face. He never resists pets and never tries to claw anyone even though he's very active, so he's a safe company to keep. Well... maybe not according to the insects.

4) Welu?

Okay, this one's a bit... new? Similar to Joan's case, he was found outside our house, but he already wore a cat collar, indicating there's definitely an owner. Originally, mom only wanted to let him stay temporarily while we look for the owner, but it's been a few months and still no clue? Because he's supposed to be just a temporary guest, we didn't really name him correctly. Welu was just a nickname mom put together without thinking, because he is really loud and talkative, so welu was just a short of the reprimand "bawel, lu". 

Welu is the youngest of the pack. He looks still in his teenage cat year and hasn't yet lost the excitement to play. Little Welu has grey tabby coat and seems to be also a mixed breed like Puyo or Joan. His tail is bushy, he constantly has this curious look to everything that moves. He reacts playfully to cables, ropes, cat toys, and finger wiggles. Welu is the only one who often joins Puyo in his insect and mice conquest, although now he takes the kitchen night shift by himself for his rodent-hunt chance.

Little Welu also likes scritches on the neck and back, and doesn't mind to be cuddled. I tried a few times but surprisingly he's heavier than Puyo even when he's smaller?? Perhaps it's his big rounded chonk belly that prevents for more comfortable carry.

I still feel like I have to spend more time with Welu. He is friendly, doesn't resist scratches and cuddles, but he is still distant because he never asks for my attention directly. Joan would meow and enter my room for attention. Puyo would just look at me with those boba eyes or jump to my lap immediately. But Welu? He only makes questioning eye contacts and I don't know if that means attention or he just haven't familiarize himself with my presence (since when he first joined our house I wasn't here yet).

Well, there you have it the tale of four of my cats. Not even a tale, eh? Just like an introduction. Or tour. I don't know. The cats have been a huge emotional support for this house left by its two only children, going away for college in faraway cities. Thanks to them the house gets more cheerful and colorful, because there's always new antics done by the bunch. Joan with her princess-like manner, Nestor with his aspiring leader fights, Puyo with his kill counts hidden by innocent furballs, and Welu with his childlike personality :)

Becoming Sane

Menjadi Waras. 

I initially had a hard time coming up with the English equivalence for this word. Waras. Being... 'normal'? 'regular'? 'mentally healthy'? A quick google translate consultation from the Bahasa word then found me in awe as to how obvious it should have been.

Sane.

Being sane.

I'm writing this after years of years being a- um... insane person? But not really. I have written many times about how I wish I actually have a mental problem so that I can blame all my mistakes on it. But not really. Do I really have that problem? Yes, but not really. To put it shortly, I have the symptoms, but not the actual disease.

I once had my doubts of 'getting better', not because I felt like I couldn't, but I just would not. I felt like it would make me... normal. And I associated 'normal' with being boring.

I told myself that if I were 'normal', then I would lose all my uniqueness. My quirks. I would be losing the depth of my emotional writing. I would not be 'the melancholy' of my peers. I would not be able to see things with the same emotional lens I used to see the world in; losing my foggy perspective. In short, I treat the emotional state of the 'mental illness' notion as part of my personality.

But it's not right. I'm relatively normal, compared to many others. I just had some problems. Frustration. Anger. Mood swings. And what are problems if they  were not to be solved?

So how was the experience of going to a psychiatrist?

I went because of the strong recommendation of a friend, since I've been having constant demotivation, tendency to detach myself from friends and colleagues and the works I'm supposed to be doing, frustration due to being not able to concentrate, extreme spikes of emotions that make hurting others and myself almost feel good. Of course I did not tell her all of this, only that I've been demotivated and detached.

So to a psychiatrist I went. It was almost impulsive. I decided to go right then Monday first thing in the morning because I was on the verge of madness and was too frustrated for my brain to receive any cognitive stimulation; and I wanted to cry so bad even though what I had to do was (luckily) just an online class (so none of them see me tearing up). If only the doctor was available right then in the morning, I would gladly skip class just to get a prognosis on what the fuck is wrong with me. But she didn't. I had to consult online via video call and the soonest available time is at night.

As per usual, you cannot expect doctors to read your mind of scan your brain immediately to know what disease you might be having. They are going to ask you 'what's wrong?' or 'how can I help you today?' and you will have to explain. So that's what I did. I explained what I was feeling, what I've been feeling and all the frustration. She would ask some questions that I answered honestly, and surprisingly, I found myself okay with all that. I thought I would be dumbfounded or feeling traumatized by the qiestions, but perhaps to some extent I have made peace with some part that I would once deemed unacceptable.

I know some people don't have the privilege to even be able to tap into their own emotion, to recognize what they are feeling, to communicate that they might be having problem. I'm lucky enough to own it and being able to speak of what I feel about (even though my problem also has something to do with detachment issue). 

She said that she understood what it is. She encountered many cases like this, especially among college students.

I was relieved, and although at first I felt like it would be offensive that all these subjective emotional frustration and personal things that affected me and being affected by me, which were my own, which I thought were unique and personal, was just a number in the statistics among her list of patients over twenty years of practice. But that does mean I am normal, I just had some issues to solve. So to some medications and 'adjustment' of lifestyle I was prescribed.

So how does it feel being 'sane'?

First up we have to define how it is to be 'sane'. Quick google search will take you to the term 'of sound mind', 'rational', 'not mad or mentally ill'. So am I already sane, in a sense? Am I already released from my demon, which might be there or not there at all? Everyone is entitled to their subjective feeling about how sane they are, how 'normal' they could be, but personally I feel like not being 'sane' means that your mental state is bothered so much that you can barely function. In my case, it was the ups and downs of emotion, difficulty of concentration, and tendency to self harm. Speaking of being sane, I feel like there has been improvement from my original state of affairs.

Feeling sane is.... let's just say, it's amazing. All the initial worries I had about me losing my depth, my quirkiness, my uniqueness, they're just untrue. I can still write, make twisted jokes, discuss philosophical matters, all without the constant inscurities of my abilities, worries of looking stupid, and large inertia that usually inhibited me to do so. It's like I have more mental energy to actually do the things that I wanna do without all the anxiety, without the negative 'what-if's, without the tendency to give up before even trying. The things that I only used to wish to be able to do, now are real things within my grasp of initiatives. I feel more hopeful, more in control of my self, and more at ease with my emotional spikes.

I could finally concentrate on reading, doing my homeworks instead of dwelling on emotional frustration that wasted so many of the times and energy I could be doing work or having fun.

My friend once said "in a short time you will be introduced to the original you who never appear often, which is your sanest and truest self", and she may be correct.

It is too soon to tell that where this state would continue from here, since it still has been only two weeks since my first consultation, but given my objective assessment, the medication helped much and I am significantly turning on the right track.

What I regretted the most is how I wish I have had gone sooner. All those gap years that I spent wallowing and feeling sorry for myself, it could be years of me actually doing what I had always have in the bucket list of my mind.

Peripherie

I have a bad habit of occasionally detaching myself from reality. I suspect it's coming from my preference to follow people instead of my own ambition, but that could be a story for another day.

Reminiscing (or blaming) my educational background in physics, I have the tendency to think on a rather abstract plane. [Not trying to boast, but rather seeing this as a form of self-observation that could be both a blessing and a curse.] By abstract, I mean theoretical. By theoretical, I mean I tend to explain or write things as basic as possible. It's as if I'm trying to make my thought to make sense to someone alien or unfamiliar with the subject matter. What.

Whenever I try to write in academic manner, I always find myself to trace the concept to its most basic constituent. If I want to explain about uranium, I somehow feel the need to make clear about the ideas of atoms first. What an atom is, what it's consisted of, how atoms relate to elements, and then the characteristics of uranium itself. Wait. That example is making too much sense, since naturally the topic of science is (almost) always deductive.

Of course, when talking about special scientific explanation such as quantum field theory, it's inevitable that people would like to know first about Schrodinger wave equation to understand what the heck you are blabbering about, then you need to make clear on the concept of Planck constant, and how the mathematics fits into this physical reality we're in. Well I guess you can always put it in simpler terms, if you're expert enough. Most of the times I'm not comprehending well enough to go beyond the realm of memorizing.

But since I'm already accustomed to obscure materials like this from the get-go, let's just say that it has become my reality, and it detached me from other forms of reality. Such as the one where you just simply live in, and form comprehension through action.

...That's quite an extensive way to say that I'm a total teacher's pet. A classroom bug. I learn things from books. I learn from theoretical viewpoints. But when it comes to actually living, I'm a total newbie.

I don't know how to act myself. I don't know where to put my hands when I walk. I don't know which way to stare when I take a gander. I don't know when it's appropriate to interrupt people without destroying the flow of conversation but also not having to deal with the expense of my sanity. I didn't know there are many ways to express love and people differ so significantly on it. I didn't know blogging was never a realistic way to earn money. I don't know a lot of things that people commonly understand before they even reach my age.

Recently I figured out that it's what can be called 'tacit knowledge', the kind of knowledge that's embedded in people, yet not documented in written or produced form, and it makes up approximately 70% of total overall knowledge. Things that you know how to do, how things work, but barely written or documented because there's no urgent need to do so. It's because usually we treat them as if they're common sense - or that it's not just your job. I mean, you don't normally go out your way to write a guideline on how to wear button-up shirts, on the procedure to order coffee in a certain cafe, or how to prepare your headspace for reading a difficult textbooks. With these things people ordinarily learn through other people who tell them how it's done, or through your own experience, but it's rarely something you can look up in books (or maybe up until now, thank you information age).

But I wished - I wished someone would have written me guidelines on how to live life.

That there would be a book solely dedicated to teach you how to tie your shoes. How to learn to drive and change your tires. How to pick for good electronics, parts where they could malfunction and how to fix them. How to chew quietly and where to put your hands when you walk. How to remind yourself not to slouch and drink eight glass of water every day. How to make friends and avoid saying things that might hurt them. How to remember to pick up your backpack after you sat it down to play basketball.

Obviously, you would say to me, that it's not how life works. You have to experience it all yourself and learn while you live. Things will happen, things will change, and you will have to somehow adapt to it.

You will buy one shitty earphone and have a bad impression on the brand overall. Then you will buy more earphone and found out that two years are a sufficient endurance time for one earphone to last.  You will befriend someone, get attached to them rather unhealthily and you will have to separate when you graduate and you will not hear from them again and when you do it's as if you already live in different worlds and there's no bridging. You will meet someone and become closer until you push beyond the boundaries of friendship and then you will find that it's not all rainbows and sunshines. You will hurt them and you will get hurt, but the world goes on whether you survive or not. Very personal experiences, I know.

Even if there are detailed guidelines of how to live your life, there is still going to be loopholes or gaps. There's no formula for everything. Even if there is a generalized theory that applies everywhere, it's not going to help with your miniscule activities. Even if there is a personalized theory that applies for everything that you do or happens to you, it's not going to be entirely helpful or prescriptive for your future situation.

Rigidity is the enemy of flexibility, and adaptability is what makes humans human, after all.

Of course I might be able to talk all high and mighty like this, when in fact I would still resort to my old ways, old habits, just because it's hard to live in this present, in this reality.

Driven by my philosophy and desire for everything to be deterministic, I once had a phase where I tried to document everything that I do. What I ate, what I drank, what I did during the day, how I'm feeling, what problems I encountered, and what kind of thoughts occurred. I tried to 'stat' them out like I was in a game. Who knows if there's going to be a similar thing happening in the future, and I would be prepared for it when I already have the recipe.

Needless to say that it didn't work out all that well. Writing everything like that takes time, and it's tedious. There's going to be knowledge left undocumented, there's going to be emotions left unsaid. When you learn, you learn, and you can thank your brain for that. Just because you can write about it doesn't mean you have to. Just because you can write about it doesn't mean you've learnt. Description doesn't equate prescription. Just because it's written down in history books doesn't mean men aren't prone to repeating it again.

Due to that, I stopped writing, because what's the point then?

But needless to say, once more, that it's not the point. Just because I had a blunder in writing doesn't mean I have to stop writing altogether. In fact, writing might be just what I need right now. Since I've been so detached from reality, it could be a way for me to ground myself in the moment. Jotting down what I'm feeling, what I'm thinking, what I'm doing.

Not everything. Not trying to be clever. Not trying to form a recipe. Just write to be here, to be who I am and where I am right now.

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.