Why Keep A Journal?

So, 1.5 years after this post, I finally (yes, finally), decided to keep a journal again.

Life's different now and finding time to sit and write about different things is challenging for me, so I decided to have this one book to be my journal, where I'll write not only about the mundane things I do everyday, but also to keep my daily pages (which was supposed to be 'morning pages' as suggested by Julia Cameron_I changed it to daily because my mornings tend to be very hectic unless I wake up at 4am and write).

A colleague said he keeps a journal and wants his future children and grandchildren to read it one day, maybe when he's old or no longer there.

Now, while I'm not sure about the idea of my grandchildren reading my personal journal (because I write awful things), I think I really need to get into the habit again.

For one, it helps my relentless mind to calm down a bit. Sometimes it gets too crowded in my head. The thoughts can't stop shouting at each other. But I found that the intensity tends to lessen when they're on paper, so keeping a journal should be good for my health.

Two, it keeps me from posting too personal things in my social media accounts. 

I'd save the netizens around the world the unnecessary information about my uneventful life, and save the use of bandwidth and energy for electricity for more useful things, you know, for a greater good.

By doing that, I'd also save myself from any future embarrassment (which I predict mostly would consist of me being embarrassed about myself) from throwing too much nonsense. This way I also get to avoid the possibility of having to have my angst-decorated memories to exist forever in the virtual world.

Because I believe that the things you don't want people to comment about or respond to (liked, loved, laughed, frowned, shared, or questioned in real life), belongs only in your personal journal. 

So every time the urge to splutter things inside my head comes I'd remember to do it properly. That is either in the safe protection of the sheets in my personal journal because, well, it's personal, or in the middle of the competing noises in the chaotic world of social media (which leads to the possibility that those angst-ridden/happiness-overdosed/too-sweet-it's-nauseating too personal postings to go unnoticed anyway but hey, better be safe than sorry).

So help me God.

have faith

Don't leave. 
Please.
Stay where you are.
I'm making my way to you.
Little by little
Stroke by stroke
Teardrop by teardrop
Dream by dream
Breath by breath
I'll get there somehow.


Don't leave.
Please.
Just hang on. Even to the smallest thought. The tiniest sign. The furthest impossibility.
Have faith.
That's all I ask of you.
Have faith.


Stay where you are. 
I'll see you there.
I'll be there.




South Jakarta, 11.09 am
#crying 

I cannot give names to it

Hi.
It's me again.
Am watching the dark sky of Jakarta now and wondering how is it going over there.


How does it feel getting closer to fall?
How does it feel, looking at the pale summer sky, feeling the breezing wind at the beginning of autumn?


I always wonder when was it started actually.
Was it when I saw you dancing like crazy?
Was it when I realized how quiet and serene you look beneath the glowing and glamorous fashion?
Was it all real? Or is it just my fantasy?
What is the different now?
This is such a feeling that brings down all the walls between reality and fantasy. Such a feeling that makes you wonder how could people say fantasies are not real.


I cannot give names to it.


What would you call a feeling that gives you a warm sensation creeping down from your chest to your stomach when you think of a particular person?
What would you call a feeling that stretch your heart from head to toe, and stretch it even further, far, far to the furthest impossibility, only with the slightest thought of the person?
What would you call a feeling that always gets you thinking of that particular person when you see a beautiful path with the color of autumn, or a beautiful house with a soft, dim light and a sofa with old cushions, next to a long wooden paneled window looking out to the garden full of trees and flowers? 


Tell me, what would you call a feeling that makes me think of you at the sight of that beautiful serenity of a comfortable, safe place to return to... The images of home...


I cannot give names to it.




Bintaro, Oct 6, late afternoon 
Finally able to finish this after being a draft for about 2 weeks

the day of sighing

They said the things you do while procrastinating, are probably the things you're supposed to do for the rest of your life.




This is absolutely the day of sighing for me.


My chest felt so heavy and I'm feeling like I could break at anytime and cry myself out. I couldn't get rid of that certain thought no matter how deep I drown myself into the works I'm doing. Every now and then the feeling gets too heavy and I'd usually sigh, sometimes unconsciously, sometimes in purpose, to ease my breath a little. I don't really know what it does to my chest, but sighing actually helps it felt a bit lighter, for a brief short moment, before the heavy feeling came back and clench my chest again.


I couldn't stop sighing today. 


I know how annoying it may sound, especially to people in this cubicle, and I really wish I could do something else. Though I always think of sighing as one of the mechanisms to release the negative energy within you, I also believe that to some extent, it affects people around you. The negative energy I release by sighing, transferred to other people nearby. 


I tried to write.
Nothing really came out anyway. Nothing except for these nonsense blabbers.


....


Never before I feel such a feeling that makes me want to exercise like crazy. Maybe I should find some jog tracks or running track somewhere and run and run, run like crazy until I run out of breath. 


I stopped sighing by the time I finished writing this.
I just took a deep sigh, inhaling breath as deep and as much as I can, and exhaling it through my mouth. It helps. And it's soundless. Much safer for everyone.

......*




*that should be read as another blank state of mind*

It's when things seem worst that you must not quit

The first time I read it was in my university's agenda about ten years ago.


I didn't know who wrote this but these are the words that has helped me going through my tough times years ago, back when I was just graduated from college.


I've lost the agenda a year after that, but I never forget the words.


Yesterday, I found them again here and I thought I'd just share it in my blog.


They never fail to boost my spirit, especially the last two lines.
So here goes.


When things go wrong, as they sometimes will,
When the road you're trudging seems all uphill,
When the funds are low and the debts are high,
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh,
When care is pressing you down a bit-
Rest if you must, but don't you quit.


Life is queer with its twists and turns,
As every one of us sometimes learns,
And many a fellow turns about
When he might have won had he stuck it out.


Don't give up though the pace seems slow -
You may succeed with another blow.
Often the goal is nearer than
It seems to a faint and faltering man;
Often the struggler has given up
When he might have captured the victor's cup;
And he learned too late when the night came down,
How close he was to the golden crown.


Success is failure turned inside out -
The silver tint in the clouds of doubt,
And you never can tell how close you are,
It might be near when it seems afar;
So stick to the fight when you're hardest hit -
It's when things seem worst that you must not quit.


Blok M, 9.17 am, a restless mind

Wounded Soul Knows No Colors

‎"Our history is made of pain and never ending struggle. 
So no, we don't know how to draw a rainbow. Wounded soul knows no colors."

I was browsing through my Facebook newsfeed stream the other day, when accidentally casting a glance to the right part of the screen. I saw the words and thought, whose words are they? So dark and gloomy. And then I saw the explanation below it; said that on that day one year ago, I posted that words in my status.

At first, I was surprised by how strange and distant the words sounded to me, even if it's only one year ago. Then within seconds everything came back to me, the memories, the feeling, the pain. They seemed to be familiar now. 

I wrote the words for someone who has gone through tough times, together with me. I wrote the words in my status box  because I wanted to tell her that it's okay if we're being misunderstood. It's okay if the clouds we're carrying above our head confuse people around us, as much as they confuse us. That's just how it is supposed to be. That's just how we are supposed to be in such times. Misunderstood. 

I wrote the words because I wanted to tell her that I am the one who understands the trouble and the pain she has gone through, as much as she understands mine. I am the one who understands the wound that carved deep within her heart through all the years, as much as she understands mine. I am the one who understands the reasons behind the grey clouds hovering on her life, as much as she understands mine. 

I wanted to tell her that no one, no one else, will be able to understand what we've gone through and that's just the way it is. I wanted to tell her to accept that and live with it, with an open heart. Misunderstood and wounded as we are. The sky is grey now. So we might as well sit and appreciate it rather than desperately paint a broken rainbow. 

But I never told her. All the things I wanted to say. I never told her that. I just didn't have the courage to do so. The wound that we have, it's not something we easily discuss openly, without having to feel how mess our lives are. I think we've been pretending that we're over and done with it. That what happened in the past remained in the past. That we are not carrying our anger within our hearts, walking like a zombie throughout our lives afterwards. We're keeping the wound, rotten in our hearts, thinking that moving ahead and never look back will help us heal. 

I know we never really are.

I posted the words in my status box that day with a hope that she'd read it (she'd read it I'm sure) and understand the meaning behind the words. I could never tell her. 

Honestly, I don't know whether I need to thank Facebook for reminding me about those words. It brought unpleasant memories. But the strange and distant feeling I got when I read it again for the first time after a year, is a sign that I've changed. Right now, I couldn't picture myself posting such words again in my status box. 

I hate to say that I don't know what happen. And to say that I'm much more positive about my life now is probably a bit of an overstatement. Or perhaps I'm just scared that things will start taking the difficult turn again. That's that. I don't know. 

One thing I know is I've learned that embracing the darkness has helped me to get through most of the tough times. I never tried to paint that broken rainbow people had been suggesting me to do all the while back then. I walked with my grey clouds, with the thought that one day when it's time for them to go, I'd be able to sincerely thank them for spending the time with me. And I know I'm preparing for a goodbye to my grey clouds now. I can feel it. 

Bintaro, 10.15 pm

I know she's not okay right now. I wrote this for her, and I'm pretty sure she won't read it. Just like many other things I couldn't tell her back then, this, I can't tell her too.

It finally rained

It finally rained.


It should heals everything.
Wash away the tears and worries.


Please.




Bintaro, 9.20 pm

on diary writing

I had my first diary when I was about seven. 


It was one day, when I was spending school holiday at my grandpa's. I woke up one morning and saw that there was a book lying on the table next to my bed. I remember I told my uncle a few days ago that I wanted a diary. Looking at the brown book, I told my self not to get excited too soon because it might be my uncle's book which happened to be laying around the house. Because  it didn't look like a little girl diary at all. The book was covered with brown leather with tiny yellow stripes on it. It had this dull, businesslike look (well but not this one on the picture, that was taken from Google, and I REALLY wish I have a diary like that)


But I was right. My uncle brought the book for me (I figured he might have brought it from his office). And since I've asked him for a diary, I then assumed that the brown book, though it didn't look like a diary, was to be filled with my notes on details of my everyday activities.


So it went.
I wrote on it everyday. And it continues up until now, more than twenty years later. 


Of course there were other books after the brown books. Lots of them. And I still kept them until a month ago, when we moved to a smaller house, where there isn't enough space for memories and things from the past. I had to disposed all of my diaries, except for the one that I'm still writing on (though very rarely).


I'm not good in letting go memories, be it the good ones or the bad ones. I like to keep things. And I know that that's not actually a good way to live your life. Disposing my old diaries was my first step in letting go of the past and I'm so proud of it.  But, aside from the fact that it has that negative effect on me, I realized that keeping a daily journal is actually good for your mental health.


My personal journal has always been my best friend in the worst of times. There are times when I feel like reading my old diaries (when they're still there), and I can say that aside from the nostalgic part, I also learn something from it. I find it a very valuable lesson, to actually pull yourself far out from yourself (which what happens when you read your writings after some time has passed), and see all the things you've done. I can see how I changed over time, how I react to things and how some things changed me. I get to know the real me, which, in most of the times, can only be seen when I pull myself out of myself. It's like having a dialogue with yourself. And it's always a good learning.


Only you and you alone can understand your most impossible reasoning and point of view. You might not really understand what it was when you were writing it down, but over time, when you read your notes a few months or years back, you'll have a better understanding of yourself. 


And that's what I'm trying to teach to my daughter. 
I want her to know that there will be times when she needs to be alone with herself, when the only person that she needs to talk to is herself, and that keeping record of the past is, to certain extent, a good way of learning.


Of course I can't tell her about the self reflection and learning parts. I only told her that it is actually a fun thing to do, telling all the things you do or feel without letting anyone know about it. That it is actually fun to have your own secret.


She picked a pink book to be her diary. She called it secret.


Everything she writes in there, is a secret. I'm not allowed to look. But of course, I couldn't help myself, and justified by my position as a parent (yeah rite), which means I need to watch my daughter closely, I looked inside. 


There's nothing special in there actually. She writes her daily activities, including the ones when she's waiting for me coming home from work. Sometimes she write her own one paragraph story, mostly about fairy and stars, and sometimes, ghosts. I can't always understand why she wrote some things, and I never discussed it with her, because I'm not supposed to look. But I'm glad that she's keeping her own journal.

Kriwil's pink diary and my red diary

The interesting is that, aside from routinely writing on her diary, she also sometimes insists to do it together with me. So we are to sit together side by side, me writing on my red book, and her writing on her pink book. We write diary, checking on how far each other's progress in writing, how many lines, how many pages and so forth. Sometimes we're exchanging comments on each other's handwriting. 


Well that, is actually not the kind of diary writing you imagine. No privacy, no contemplation in silence, and all the usual things one usually have (or seek) in writing a journal. Sometimes she even insists to write a letter for me in my diary. She has surely brought a diary writing to a whole new level. 


Now I have to find extra time to really sit and think and write on my journal, and turn it into something useful, because I can't do that when my daughter keeps checking on what I write and how many lines I've written :D


But I'm glad because she seems to enjoy the process. She sees it as a fun activity, and the fact that she has a secret, makes it even more exciting for her.


Having my daughter keeping a secret from me is actually not the kind of situation I want to have. But I think it's good for her to learn the concept, and even more than that, it's good for her to learn writing down her thoughts and keeping track of it. I really hope she'll keep on writing, and eventually get something useful out of it.




Bintaro, Monday afternoon