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