My broken bones

More than anything else in the world, I feel like sobbing and break into an ugly cry for two hours while rambling about why I'm so tired and scared and depressed. More than anything else in the world, I know that if I do that--if I do what I feel like doing--it would mean that I'm weak and stupid and not being grateful for what I have.

I know. I tell that to myself all the time.

I don't despise myself, but I am my worst enemy; my biggest weakness, and my harshest critic.

I'm not weak. I know I'm not. I'm probably not as strong as some people are, but by God believe me I've tried. I'm sorry if it wasn't good enough. I've tried to pull myself together and be tougher, put on a greater strength and smile, but it's never easy.

Nothing feels weirder than being in a position that people would kill for, only to feel like you don't deserve it and hate yourself for thinking so low of yourself.

A lot of things feel worse than that, but knowing that you cannot accept your own blessings will make you doubt whether you ever love yourself from the first place.

When I'm Still in Love With You

This is what I have always wanted to tell you:

You're not real. You might live somewhere in an undisturbed corner of my heart that is yet to be discovered, but you're not real. It's supposed to be empty; that spot you call home. You're a fragment of my idea about what it's like to have you, but that's not where you are supposed to be.

Maybe

We met by chance.

Or rather, we never actually met.

I don't know how tall (or short) you are. I don't know how your voice sounds like. How the curls of your hair sit on your head, or how rough your skin feels due to your hard work. I don't even know how thick your accent is, or the gestures your hands make when you speak, but I suspect you have them.

And also, you don't know me either.

You don't know what I do. You don't know what kind of paradox I am. You don't know how I can go from smiling, feeling genuinely happy one second and then listening to a very sad, melancholic song the next because I intentionally want to cry. How really shrill my voice is, or how I squeeze my hands so often someone might think I'm a puncher. You don't know how good my hair smells, or how I have a thousand different shades of nude lipstick at my disposal every day.

We may talk like we've known each other since childhood. Like I used to come around to your house and run around your backyard while your mother makes cupcakes. Like you used to pull my ponytail at school to make you look like a tough guy, but never missed a chance to pick some wild flowers for me on the way back home. But the truth of the matter is, we know nothing about each other.

We're aliens.

I didn't expect to hear anything from you ever again since the last time we made contact, until you appeared in my inbox once again. You were looking back at the camera, standing on a small bridge, and a charming Italian town behind you. I can clearly see peach-washed houses and bikes and brown-haired people on the background. You were smiling so brightly I didn't remember you to be this cute. The caption reads, Get a house here, maybe?

I smiled. You remember my dreams.

So maybe that's why I never forget you in my dreams.

Kindness

I didn't believe in kindness.

In this age where wit is almost always equal to sarcasm, and cynicism is the way to survival, kindness just seems like an unpopular way of being. I don't think I've been a kind person. I know I'm not a very good person, and kindness isn't a trait I'm usually associated with. I don't see a lot of kindness in my day-to-day life, which is sad, but I'd like to think that that's because it's just simply rare. People don't do kindness anymore. They'd rather be anything but kind. Kind is boring.

I don't know what to do with kindness.

I'm so used to the fact that no one bothers with being kind anymore, and since unkindness (if that's even a word) is contagious, I tend to think that it doesn't exist anymore.

But it does. 

Someone could be so kind to you, even though you don't think you've done anything good enough to deserve it.

Someone could shower you with so much kindness that you don't know what to do with it.

A Little Life's Jude St. Francis didn't know what to do with Harold's genuine kindness. He's not used to it. He's unfamiliar with it, and it feels alien to him. He thought such kindness is unnecessary; soon Harold is going to find out that he's not worth all the kindness, the love, the affection that Harold offered him. Soon, something will go wrong, and he's afraid that he won't be ready when that happens if he enjoys this happiness; the happiness of being the object of someone's kindness. But Harold loved him anyway. In spite of all the danger. In spite of every thing that happened. 

I hope one day you'd find a kind person--a genuinely kind person. Someone who's kind to you. Someone who sees your worth, even when you couldn't see it; when you didn't know you had any. I hope this kind person will be kind to you just because they want to. Because they know that you could do with some kindness. That you deserve it. That you're not as bad as you think you are--not even half of it. I hope that what they do to you will make you realise that you are capable of something. Their kindness will lift you up. Nurture you. Help you to be the best person you could be. I hope that this person will awaken something in you that have been asleep and hiding in the deepest, darkest corner of you--and stick a candle to it.

And that someday, you will grow to be the kind person that you wish you'd met. 

Two A.M Ramblings

I know that I write a lot of melancholic stuffs in this page, and if you know me in real life, I sometimes act like a comic and tend to laugh at my own jokes. But like I believe all of you are, I'm not some two-dimensional character in a teen-lit novel. When the light is out and the night is dark, and my sleepiness is somewhere but in my head, I'm actually a very serious person. I re-watch Aaron Sorkin's The Newsroom for the umpteenth time, teach myself the politics between the Sunnis and Shiites, and sometimes, try to think of how to someday leave the world better than I found it. Shouldn't be a hard work, don't you think? We were born into such a messed up world, won't take a genius to find what could be improved. The challenge, however, is in where, and how, to start.

You know how I was born into a middle class family of Javanese descent with a Muslim faith, and live my entire life in Jakarta? You know how the demographics of Indonesia's big picture is? Yep, like me. My family is, politically speaking, center-right. I grew up in the southern part of suburban Jakarta, which, truthfully speaking, is mostly inhabited by people like me. Sure, many of them don't exactly share my background, but you know, more or less, we are the pribumi. Indonesians don't understand political correctness, so I believe that it's still generally acceptable to say that word: pribumi. Most of my friends, I have just recently realized, tick all of the criteria I have just mentioned, like me. Come to think of it, during my first 20 years, I hardly know anyone who doesn't look like me.

If this was America, I'd be a white Irish girl with perhaps brunette hair living in New York. I'd be a part of Trump's target demography, to be honest. I'd be in a box full of privileged people simply because of their color and their faith, though not exactly the kind that the 1% has. I'd be the majority. And you know how privileged the majority is? Always remember this all throughout your life: There is no right or wrong. There's only popular opinion. When you're a majority, of course it's easier to make your opinion the popular opinion.

Then real life came and I was suddenly in a concrete jungle of a capital city we call Jakarta, which we all have a love-hate relationship with, and I was forced to educate myself about who I am, what I am, and how I should interact with people. I had to learn the hard way about my place in the actual world; about joining a community, an entire society that I had never been really exposed with. All of a sudden, here I am. In the middle of a culturally and ethnically diverse society that I wasn't aware I was lacking the experience of. All of a sudden, I had to learn how to place myself in this world, and where I am is really important to learn how to be politically correct.

Suddenly, I was a minority. Sure, sometimes it makes you feel like you're somewhat interesting. But it could also make you feel like being in an aquarium: everyone was watching you, examining you, asking you what it's like to be in your world. Suddenly, it's just a weird feeling. Not exactly sucks, but weird.

Now, imagine that Jakarta is a miniature of America: people from different ethnics, cultures and background flocked together to create its own dynamic. Just like America, where the immigrants are the real force behind their dynamics, Jakarta is also severely dependent on these people who once came to try their luck in the big city. This past holiday, I realized what an hellhole Jakarta is during the Eid-ul Fitr, when every last person I know left this city for--oh, God knows what. A holiday, maybe. Or a family gathering in their hometowns. Everyone was updating their social media from all over the world that I couldn't even keep up where each of them went. Instead of a 3-day family visitation in a small countryside like everyone else, I was here. In Jakarta. Shops closed, malls barely functioning (and I know this, because I went to the mall that Eid-ul Fitr evening since I was done with my family gatherings) supermarkets couldn't keep their promise of fresh fruits and vegetables, restaurants running out of ingredients and struggling to serve the overflowing of customers with limited waiters... There isn't much glory to this city when it comes to this holiday, and I was left wondering what would happen to Jakarta had none of these people come back. A real-life Walking Dead, I suppose.

So, this is why I understand that had I been born American, I wouldn't be supporting Donald Trump if my life depends on it. I probably don't really understand how immigrants feel like a threat in America, but I do know that you can't hope for a better future when you're not willing to co-exist with other people who don't look like you. I'm not even going to start with political or religious views here (because God knows it's become an issue here in Indonesia, too) but just start with people who look like us. My government always said it's trying its best to keep Papua in this country, but to what extent? Nobody's doing much for them. Those who live here, people like me, who look like me, probably first thought of them as a bunch of thugs. If we have no gun controls, it's probably only a matter of time before we also have a #BlackLivesMatter movement here around us. Because Indonesians--I don't know if you haven't noticed, but we are brutally hostile. No, we're not friendly. That's a propaganda your primary school teacher told you, the way they teach North Korean kids that Kim Il-Sung is a God. No, we're not friendly. We just like to believe we are. Or maybe we are... but only to people who look (and think, and dress) like us.

A Little Life

It is no longer a secret within humanity that life is short--perhaps even too short to experience all good things in life. There's always too many good movies to watch, too many good songs to listen, too many delicious cakes to enjoy... but if this year you are planning to read one--and only one--book, make it Hanya Yanagihara's sophomore novel A Little Life.

I don't know how to start talking about this book--not then, when I went straight to review it on Goodreads, and not even now, when it's been about a month since I finished reading (and weeping). I spent quiet a long time to finish, because there was no way life didn't happen during the course of the 700+ pages. I brought this book as a companion for my flight to Bangkok back in April, but it gave me a terrible sickness on the plane. I just couldn't--God, I don't know why! But I tell you this: this is the kind of book that stays with you; it lingers for a long time that I haven't even done feeling the aftermath. This is the kind of book that doesn't come too often in life. I haven't even lived my life long enough or read lots enough to know that, but believe me when I say that you are going to thank me for recommending me this book someday.

The story started out as something of a weird, retro image of four young men fresh out of a prestigious New England college. Jude, JB, Willem and Malcolm are going to be the main characters of the story, even though as the story developed, I feel like Jude was the sun, and everybody else was some planets that revolve around him. Granted, this novel is about Jude. I just wasn't convinced enough by reading the first twenty pages. At the end of the day, I feel like the main focus of the friendship should also involve Andy Contractor, their best friend and orthopedist who's also the only doctor in the world that Jude trusts his condition with.

Now, I knew even before I purchased this book that it's going to be a gruesome experience. It's an upsetting novel at worst, but also sweet and pretty John Green at best. What makes the whole story compelling is how Jude St. Francis (he's the sun, remember?) theoretically went full circle, through so much in his life, only to go back to the place where he started. Now, Jude is a ruthless litigator at a certain New York law firm. Nobody knows where he came from, what ethnicity he was, his sexual orientation, and he never ever mentioned his past. The present Jude is what everybody had. Now imagine how annoying to have a friend who only listens but never shares.

Jude battles a kind of self-waged war against himself every single day. He grew up being told that he does not deserve love, that he's unworthy of kindness, that he was made for a certain purpose. He was raised in a certain way that he believed that is what he is until the death of him. He's reluctant to feel love--any kind of love--from anybody because he think he doesn't deserve it. He pushes people away, even people who made it clear that they care about him, that they do not expect anything in return from him. When someone told him that they love him, he's convinced that it's only because they don't know him well enough; or the time hasn't come for them to see how terrible he really is, and that they would be disappointed to have loved him at all. Jude basically sabotaged himself into not feeling happiness at all.

The book could use some slightly better editing, but the words were so deep--sometimes philosophical--and beautiful, I wish I could frame them. I'll admit that it's a bit too long, but to cut any part of it will lessen the beauty of the little life that we're supposed to witness. We were given a chance to grow old together with Jude St. Francis; let's not make it not worth the while.

Flightless Bird

It was dark, and I was sleepy, my head was heavy, and it was most likely just the wine talking...

but in the darkest, loneliest, quietest of night,

I miss you.

Unattainable

For a while, I didn't realize how I have completely stopped writing about a particular person. Not out of deliberation, just sheer coincidence. God knows how hard I've tried to stop, but it had become an obsession--or rather, a weird hobby that involves a muse that will never get a thank you note, because he doesn't even realize how he's inspired so many writings, so many words, and countless of dreams. These days, I barely ever think about him. In fact, I barely ever think about anyone at all. The very idea that I could write about someone as much as I did of him is just beyond unthinkable. Not that I don't trust myself to ever find love again (was it even love?) but I just don't think I'd ever be... as naive, as green, and as nonchalant as I used to be. I was young--younger than I am today--and I just did it so effortlessly. Now that I'm older, I can barely see someone and not immediately pinpoint something about him that I don't like and won't tolerate. I may be incapable of love--after all, you know I'm a pusher in that I push everyone away. And I know I shouldn't... I just can't help it. I had to. Otherwise, I'd feel like I'd dissolve into a million molecules and cease to exist. What makes this person so interesting in the first place? I don't know. Please don't ask me such question, for I can't even get to the very idea why. We probably wouldn't get along very well anyway. I can even see myself and this person in another universe and even in there, I don't trust myself with him. Even in another universe, I couldn't do it. I wouldn't dare imagine that there will ever be a story, in any alternate universe in this vast and unexplored life, in which we could be together and live happily ever after. Nope. Not even in my wildest dream. 

Everything Looks Perfect From Far Away

Did you ever realize how lucky we are to be born into this world?

I absolutely thought that, since we don't actually know each other, then it's not the best place to be. But the truth is, this right here, is my favorite universe. The one where you don't know me and I love the idea of you, and yet here we are. In the same frequency.

The Enigma

Did you know that I have just turned 23 a few days ago?

I'm the kind of person who tells everyone about my birthday since January. Sometimes how I remind them of my birthday can be subtle, other times just plain annoying and borderline obnoxious. I don't know, I just really like doing that, it's kind of my thing. Yeah, I probably need to get a new hobby...

Anyway, I know that a lot of my friends have been here before I do. In fact, since I'm sort of the younger one in my friendship circle, I kind of always arrive in a phase behind the rest of my peers. It's like, they've been here, done that. But it also made me go through the many stages of life that we went through together earlier than they've ever were, so sometimes people would say, I'm wise beyond my years, but sometimes also very, very childish.

I honestly don't know what I'm going to do with being 23. Some of you might know better than I do. Some of you might even think, "What are you doing? You're an adult! You should've figured yourself out!" 

All I know right now is that I'm older. Much, much older than I think I am. Sometimes when I see high school kids, I think fondly of my miserable high school years and the realize... Damn. That was almost 10 years ago. I don't know about you, but sometimes I feel like I have the mentality of a college student. I know I have a full-time job now, yes, but sometimes I thought that there would be a holiday period waiting for me. That there would be a break somewhere down the line. I keep waiting for that moment when I can just stay at home all day not thinking about a single hard thing but then I realize... I should feel so lucky that I don't have that kind of time anymore. I should feel so lucky that I have a job that requires me to spend most of my time sitting in front of a computer, typing shit that sometimes I don't even believe in. Hell, I should feel so lucky that I have all these things that I have right now, at 23 years old.

Of course, there's always room for improvement. Like a more existent love-life, for example. Or a more fit body. Or simply a more healthy diet and lifestyle. After all, life is not supposed to be all work and no play at all, and I know that. I know. I'm just not good at finding things that I like. I'm not very good at determining whether I really want something. I'm not good with money, and terrible at making plans. I hope I will get better with all of these things, and perhaps even more that I failed to mention...

For the time being, let's just start off 23 years old with caring about treating my skin and applying my creams in upward motions :)