how do you know when it's love?

Dearest people, do you love? Do we love?

This is the question that I've been having in the past few years, right after a bumpy experience that has turned my life upside down, down to the point that I no longer recognize it and still wondering up to this day, was that really my life?

I've grown older, just as that bumpy experience grown on me. And my mind has unconsciously started the process of rearranging the structure of my previous belief on things, on life, and love.

Back in my younger days, love was something undefinable, described only with the fast beating heart, trembling knees, sweating hands, and sudden lost for words upon meeting or a mention of the subject of the feeling. Love was magical. And if there was anything negative about love, was that it is draining. It drains the life out of you, and fill you up with something else, something sparkling, something bigger than life. Something like the celebration of the independence day.

I've past thirty now. And I've learned my lessons well.

Within the years span between the bumpy experience and now, I met a few people, and fell for some of them. And with everyone I met and fell for or had a crush on, one by one all the definitions I used to had about love were proved to be fault, and finally had to be taken out of the list.

So now, to quote from Van Halen, how do you know when it's love?

A friend once insisted that you just knew. You'd just knew when you finally meet your other half. She said, you just need to trust your feeling. Then I said, that's exactly where the problem lies. What kind of feeling that you need to trust?

Is it the heart pounding knee trembling feeling? The sudden inability to speak properly? The sleepless nights that follow after the hours of hours of phone conversation? The feeling of fireworks in your chest that makes your days feel like independence day celebration every time you meet that certain person?

Is it the realization of the similarities that both of you have? The knowledge that both of you turn out to have similar hobbies, read similar kinds of books, watch similar kinds of movies, loves to hang out at similar places, have the same favorite songs?

When I ask these questions, the response I get from my friends would be those of sympathy. They must be thinking how poor this little woman, missing so many beautiful moments people would have when they're in love. How poor this little woman, loosing her faith in love and thus losing her chance of meeting her other half.

It got me thinking.

Someone said to me, be careful, there's a very thin line between being a grown up and being bitter. And I've promised myself, that I'd never, ever, ever, going to be that bitter person carrying dark clouds above her head. I might be silent and distant most of the time, but I don't plan to spend the rest of my life spreading negative energy around me and make the world a bitter place.

But I remember witnessing people I know being in love. They would fluently explaining to me the reasons why they're in love with this certain person, or sometimes, why I should be in love with a certain person: he's handsome, he's nice, he's cute, he's attentive and caring, he's so romantic. He makes my heart flutters with his words. He loves to give surprises. He's always be there for me. He may not be nice but deep down he's a gentle soul. He gets along with my mother. He's the one who understands me better than anyone else. He's a very religious person. He's graduated from this and that. He is very opinionated. He's fun to be with. I love the way he makes me feel. I love how he makes me laugh. We have so many similarities. We read the same books. And the list continues.

Hearing them altogether, that sounds like a perfect quality you want from a partner. But somehow my mind always manage to force me to read them again, one by one. You love him, because he's handsome? Oh, you love him, because he gives you surprises? Let's try again. You love him, because he's a very religious person? Another one. You love him, because you read the same books? Not even five of the criteria above grouped together would be enough to be your reasons for loving someone.

And I finally became fully convinced that no, you cannot reason love like that. That is not love. At least, you don't love  a person for that kind of reasons. You think you love the person, but actually, you don't. You just love what they seem to be to you. You just love the reflection of your imagination. You recreate your imagination on them and you think you love them. You take what you need from them. You think you love them because they make you laugh. Think again, isn't that a selfish motive? Love shouldn't be selfish. You think you love them because you love the way they make you feel. Another selfish motive don't you think? Well, it might be true that you love them, but really, the way they make you feel shouldn't be the only reasons why. You love them because they're always be there for you? Because they always have their shoulders ready for you to cry on? Are you clinging on to them with your dear life? Then what would happen to your own life? Don't you want to claim it? You love them because you read the same books? Uhm, okay. You know the answer.

Most of the people I see, and I have to admit, I've been there too, think that they're in love with a certain person, while actually, they're in love with their own imagination. We don't really love the person. We love them for what we think they are, not what they truly are. We love them because, because perhaps somehow, they look good on us, or we look good on them. We create a picture in our mind, an ideal picture of what our love should be, and pick the most suitable person according to our criteria to be there in the picture. In better situation, they're there because they're assigned by the universe to be there to teach us something. But not necessarily love.

So do we love? Do we love someone? Or do we just love the reflection of our hopes that we put on them? 
And again, isn't that selfish? Wouldn't that be a burden too big to bear for them to have to carry our hopes?

I remember having this feeling for a guy. Despite the fact that I'm not planning to pursue it further, I've been keeping the feeling alive for quite some time, simply because it gives me positive energy. The feeling I had was not the kind of feeling that makes me cringe for feeling insignificant and insecure or uncomfortable, feelings that are usually found in the so called love. The feeling I had was the kind of feeling that makes me feel alive and love myself more than ever. However, no matter how positive the feeling is, I realized that it's the feeling that I've fallen for, not the person. I fell in love with the feeling I had for him, not with him. So I gave it up.

But you cannot just refuse to experience that independence day celebration-like feeling when it comes to you, my friend insisted.

I said, well, most of the time, you have very little control of your feeling, because that's just how feelings are. They're not meant to be tamed. So I wouldn't mind. Such fireworks in your heart would be nice to have. But I wouldn't hold on to it.

The fireworks in your chest are beautiful, just as beautiful as when they're bursting with colors in the night sky. But they don't last. Or rather, most of them don't last. Some of them would last a lifetime, but I'm sure you'd not be able to spot it in the first encounter. You'd probably have to go through all the troubles and accidentally burn your hands on the way to find them. Or you probably would only find them when they're no longer sparkling and bursting in the sky and cheered up by hundreds of people. Probably you'd find them when the sparkles have died down, leaving only a constant glowing light, not too bright, but comforting.

No, I don't despise the ideas of love. But I've learned that it needs more than a pounding heart and fireworks in your chest to spot your other half. And it needs reasons beyond just looks or the impression that the person makes upon you, to say that you love them.

Or perhaps, there's just no reasoning at all. Maybe my friend was right after all. You just knew.

So here's where I finally confess, that I still don't have the answer to that Van Halen's question (which in his song, he said he couldn't tell it either but it last forever_now, that's rather difficult isn't it?). I still can't tell when it's love. But I can confidently say that at least I know when it's not.

Do we give too much credit to the word love? Perhaps we do.
Is love overrated? Perhaps it is.

But sometimes, all we need to do to make sure is to just look on the other side, or take a few steps back and look again, or take a few steps forward and look closer, squint harder, or maybe as simple as tilting our head and look at it sideways. Think again. Take your time. 

Love is a strong word, carrying a noble mission, with the right amount of possibility of destruction when not handled with care. Use it sparingly. Treat it wisely.

Luna (1)

Aku Luna.

Begitu selalu katanya.

Seperti bulan yang bersinar pucat di kemuraman malam. Bulan yang dilihat ibuku dari celah jendela ketika berjuang membawaku ke dunia. Yang memberinya alasan untuk terus mempertahankan hidup. Hidup yang tak layak dipertahankan.

Hidup seperti apakah yang tak layak dipertahankan? Tanyaku suatu kali.

Hidup yang dijalani dengan berlari, terjatuh, tersuruk, tersungkur, berdiri lagi untuk kemudian terjatuh lagi, dan merangkak tersaruk-saruk. Hidup seperti hidup ibuku.

Ibumu yang hingga kini masih terus bertahan hidup?

Ya.

And how's that?

Ia hanya mengangkat bahunya.


(Tangerang Selatan, bertahun-tahun lalu)

When Morning Comes

Every morning I’d wake up to a strange realization on how quiet it is inside my head. I’d spend the first few minutes sitting on the edge of the bed, thinking about you, and all the feelings I have about you; the feelings that never stop pounding loudly in my chest, the feelings that have overtaken all my logic and reasons, replacing it with something unidentifiable yet overwhelming. It’s funny how distant and strange the feeling seems to be in the morning. I wonder, what could have possibly happened during my sleep that has erased all the chaos, leaving no trace but subtle feeling of a déjà vu, so subtle like a thin transparent fabric on your window. It has died down over night.

At that very brief moment, I thought I finally got over you and all the impossibilities. It feels relieving at the beginning. Then I’d start to feel a sense of loss. I’d wonder would it felt not thinking about you every day. How would it felt not longing for you.  How would it felt to finally stop dreaming and get my feet on the ground. How unpleasant everything is if I stop dreaming and let logic takes over. How unpleasant it would be for not having you sitting silently at the corner of my mind, listening to all the tales I’ve been telling myself in my quiet moments, hoping that you’d hear, somehow. And then I’d get off my bed, feeling there’s a part of me cried for having to say goodbye to the feeling that (I thought) has ended, and at the same time relieved for finally being able to see things clearly again and continue my life.

And then, just when I finally step my feet on the floor, preparing to start another day, the feeling comes back, sweeping over me like a wave in the ocean. Waves that have reached the shore. Small, slow, uncertain to where to land, where to stop, where to hit, but keep on going nevertheless, dancing their way to the shore, sweeping everything on their way, erasing all the reasons and doubts that have been thrown at the end of the shoreline by confused souls. Drawing a new shore line. Cleaning up the surface, leaving nothing but the sands, no foot prints, no signs, no trace at all, nothing to show that once there were marks of doubts of pains of tears there.

And with that, once again I surrender to the feeling. Embracing the sight of the clean shoreline, instinctively letting in the taste of the air of a new day through my nose and into my lungs, running through my veins, and becoming the breath that I breathe for that day, before it ends and another day arrive tomorrow. And it will start all over again. And it goes on. And on. And on.

(South Tangerang, 4 years ago)

Meringue

Dear G, we are spreading the pink meringues on the paper tissue now. We are trying to get the chocolate ones but they were put at the bottom under the pink ones (and no one wants to try the pink ones, you know how it is, chocolates are far more appealing).

So here they are finally spread, all pinks, against the white paper tissue. They looked so cute, with all the tiny dots of red all over them. I love meringue. I always love the way they melt in my mouth.

Dear G, this is nothing but another nonsensical thoughts appear out of nowhere. You don’t have to read it. You’ll probably never read it. You might never even realize that it has been written and posted here, all these things about you. But if one day you read it, you don’t need to cringe, or frown. And you don’t have to like meringues.

It’s just me. With another nonsensical thoughts appear out of nowhere. Yet even the most nonsense things seem to be triggering the thought of you.

Dear G, we are spreading the pink meringues on the paper tissue, and I suddenly wondered, do you actually like meringues too?
But again, it’s okay, you don’t have to like it. I was just wondering how you are doing now.


(Kebayoran, 4 years ago)

Late Autumn (And Rainy Days)

Here I am, sitting and listening to late autumn while watching the cars and motorcycles rushing their way home on this rainy night.

I’m thinking about you, about the difference between autumn breeze and drizzling rain. I’m thinking about how autumn turns everything brown and reddish around you, and how rain leaves small charming droplets on my window. I’m thinking about what you’re thinking when you pull the scarf around your neck and step outside your door; looking at the sky. Are you aware that hundred of miles from where you stand, there’s someone who’s also looking at the same sky, that very sky that you’re staring at? Do you know how that someone wonders what does autumn feels like while she opens her umbrella and walk outside her door in the middle of the pouring rain? Do you know how that someone wonders what it feels like to be standing next to you, watching the leaves falling to the earth, to be walking next to you along the small path, relishing the sound of brown and red leaves under your feet?

I’m thinking about you; about the grey sky above our heads, about how different things are, about the fact that the only connection between us is the cold weather that’s been lingering around us since the beginning of the autumn and the rainy season, about how it will never make any difference.

I’ve been pondering about this for some time now and I wonder, what would you think if you know that I am here, thinking about you?

(South Jakarta, 4 years ago)

31 Days of Randomness - Day 3: On torn between choices and the hands of time

Wednesday morning. Torn between writing (as a good writer-wannabe should be doing), or cleaning the house (as a good mom should be doing), or just keep reading whatever it is I'm reading (as a good-for-nothing person should be doing early in the beginning of the day).

I'm torn between choices.

Choices, choices, choices.

I'm never one to make choices. What's with all the Libra sign and a condition of acute procrastinator. Too many choices to make, nothing seems to be better _or worse_ than the others, and then it gets oh so confusing so better leave it at that and think about it later; when my head is clearer, or when there's no sun outside threatening to rise and glare its way up to the morning hours fiercely (letting everyone knows that the morning is rolling and the time is ticking).

Time does tick louder after the sun rises, don't you think?'
I suppose the hands of time are a bit like plants. Feeding from sun lights, growing firmer and sharper with every bit of light it consume, leaving no room for arguments from those who still have doubt about time's power to move everything forward.

Arguments from people like me, who can't make choices.

Pertama di tahun 2015

"Dia menantinya
dalam jeda-jeda hening musim yang berganti
kemarau dan hujan dan kemarau dan hujan lagi
yang datang tanpa jeda untuk membasahi jiwa atau mengeringkan air mata


Dia
telah
dan selalu
untuk pertemuan sesaat
merindukannya
dengan rasa sakit"


Demikianlah, postingan pertama di tahun 2015 (yang sudah berjalan sebulan ini), adalah potongan puisi yang saya buat sekitar satu dekade lalu.

Untuk pengingat saja, betapa saya dulu sangat piawai dan percaya diri dalam memetik dawai-dawai kegalauan dan menyandingkannya dengan rangkaian kalimat mewakili suara hati terdalam yang tak tersampaikan. Betapa saya dulu adalah salah satu pengguna jaring laba-laba raksasa dunia ini yang aktif menyebarkan pesan-pesan kepedihan hati dan cinta tak berbalas.

Mungkin, sekarang saya juga masih sepiawai itu.
Mungkin.
Tapi lalu ada 'bisa' dan 'mau', yang merupakan binatang yang berbeda meskipun masih saudara. Kemudian ada 'perlu', binatang yang berbeda, tidak ada hubungan saudara, tapi seringkali dilibatkan dalam rembugan-rembugan antara 'bisa' dan 'mau'.

'Bisa', 'mau', dan 'perlu' sibuk berdebat dalam kepala saya. Hasilnya kemudian adalah saya yang tidak menulis apa-apa.

Mudah-mudahan situasi ini segera berubah, dan saya kembali bisa menuliskan hal-hal tidak penting seperti biasa tanpa harus berpikir mengenai perdebatan 'bisa' 'mau' dan 'perlu'.
Tidak berarti suara hati saya itu penting untuk dunia atau memiliki nilai keindahan yang tak terbantahkan. Tapi saya rasa penting untuk memberi ruang pada hal-hal yang tidak bisa disampaikan dalam kehidupan nyata, untuk kemudian disampaikan kepada alam semesta melalui jaring laba-laba raksasa ini.

Siapa tahu alam semesta berbaik hati, menempatkan pesan-pesan tak terkatakan itu dalam orbit yang tepat sehingga mereka sampai di tempat tujuan dan diterima dengan baik oleh yang berkepentingan.

Kita tidak pernah tahu kan ya?


2.36, Senin dinihari

Nobody Cares About What Has Been

So she took a peek into the driver’s room.

It was dark, with only small ray of lights coming in through the front (or back, in this case) window.

But does it matter?

We are all moving forward, she thinks. Nobody cares about the lights behind us, despite its persistence on staying. Nobody cares about what’s left behind.

And that’s the kind of question that never fails to struck her. The kind of question that will tear all her confidence and defenses down, and shredded them to pieces as if some mysterious paper shredder have magically made its way into her mind, stole the delicate faith that she has been building slowly from nothing, and crushing it slowly through its sharp little knives with robotic indifference, non-humanly innocence.

Nobody cares about what has been.

Why should she?

She Recognizes Him

It's a wonder to her how she still remembers even the smallest details about him.

She stared at the square image of a pair of hands in front of her, and through the limited size of her cellphone screen, she recognized him.

It’s him. She recognizes the hand.

She recognizes the fingers, the way they are curled as if ready to grasp something, anything, that comes his way. Exactly how he lives his life.

She could tell it was him in the picture from the shape of the nails; the way they are trimmed, and how the edges are always a bit dirty, though she never understands why they are dirty.

She never asks.

There were many things she understands about him, just as many as the things she doesn't. But she stopped asking since a long time ago. She learned that questions unsettled him. And after some time, questions unsettled her too. So she stopped asking questions, not only to him, but also to life.

What people talked about as moving with the flow of life, is more like a merry-go-round to her.  Sometimes you’re a few inches below life, sometimes you’re a few inches off the ground. Never too high, never too low, and even if it is, it doesn't feel like it, especially when you look back over your shoulders when everything has passed, because we are the masters of denial of our own misery. That’s what she thought.

The world is a merry-go-round, a few inches up, a few inches down, a few inches further, and before you know it you’re back where you were before, ready to be spinning in the same orbit again, running on the same path again, chasing whatever it is in front of you, reaching out to grasp whatever it is in front of you and fail every single time because they are just like you, spinning in the same orbit, running on the same path, just a few inches ahead of you.

So there's not point asking questions to life. The world is a merry-go-round and it is easier if you just know your place and stop asking questions.

‘That's pathetic’, he said, with a pair of eyes looking at hers sadly. And he left whatever questions he had hanging in the air because like her, he also knows that questions unsettle her too.

Being her usual sensitive self, she recognized the sadness in his eyes. She wondered why but kept it to herself.

‘The world is a merry-go-round, flowing like water and philosophy be damned.’ Thus, she said.

The world is a merry-go-round but somehow they never really return to where they were before. Probably there's a glitch in the mechanism of the universe. Probably all the spinning and twirling got a little too harsh and things and particles and fate and wishes are thrown out of orbit.

Probably.

Because it seems that something has been shifting along the way, and every single time, they were brought back a few inches further from where they were. Just a few inches further, but never closer to each other.

She stared at the pair of hands in the square image on her screen. Judging from the way the picture was taken, it seems that it was made based on his request. It wasn't like him to leave his face out of the frame though, but perhaps he's changed now. With all the spinning and twirling of the merry-go-round, it's only normal, she thinks.

Once again she finds herself in amazement. How easy it is for her to recognize him, even when he's moved a few inches from where he was before, changed a little bit from how he was before, hiding a little bit more than he used to.

She recognizes the hands, the veins that run from his wrist to the tips of his fingers, the way it held out in front of him, embracing everything that life has to offer, or the way it curled back moving away from her, some time during the bumpy ride of the merry-go-round. She recognizes him, from afar, from up close, with closed eyes, through the brightest day, under the darkest shadow.

They can zoom in his picture down to pixels, she thinks, and she would still be able to recognize him.

With that thought, she leaned herself back to the chair and close her eyes. It's not so much of a consolation, but it is the one thing about him that doesn't leave her unsettled.

She recognizes him, and the life in him.

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.

Excuses for no excuses

It's been quite some time since the last time I visit my own blog. I guess I'm just not made for commitment in the first place. I can't even commit to my own life (oh yes, bitter mood is on).

No excuses for the commitment, I'm just that lousy. But I think it's also a good thing to settle with just short posts, considering my mind is actually still relentless as ever, and with such minimum release it might lead to mental explosion (is there even such a thing?) like, I guess, the one I'm currently having right now. My tongue is practically a flying dagger ready to tear at anyone insensitive enough to read the sign.

My former boss used to tell me that my subconscious is just too intense, that's why every little thing out of order, even as small as some iseng colleagues shaking my chair playfully while passing next to my desk would shock me to the point where it takes me a few seconds to return to the real world, and that by the time I do, I've completely forgot everything I was doing previously.

I don't think that's the problem now. I think it's just solitude deprived at its worst.

Life happens, life grows, and life doesn't bother to ask whether I'm ready or not. I guess that's what happened.

My workload is getting crazier, the stake is getting higher, it's rainy season the traffic is getting more impossible for everyone to commute in less than 2 hours (unless, of course, they don't commute), longer hours on the street, shorter quality hours at home, brain's getting even wearier.

Again, no excuses. I'm completely aware of that. And I've been trying to accept the fact that this is just the life I have to go through for now, so yeah, personal dreams shoved into the closet for now. And turns out that it doesn't do me good.

I need to stick to short posts if that's all that I can make for now. Because making a decent, thoroughly thought posts takes time and energy, which I'm currently lack of. And not letting is also counterproductive. Add the solitude deprived and here I am now, a collection of all forms of rage, ready to blow up with even the smallest ignition.

I just need to settle with what little I can do right now.

My Mind

I planned to work, but then I opened my blogger account. There were also days when I planned to draw or write, but then stuck with the office email and started to develop a document, happily.

Sometimes I don't understand the way my mind works. It seems like it has a life of its own.

on the emptiness and nothingness inside

Bintaro, 2.25 pm, sad sad sad beyond help

things I want to say today (but can't)

Don't talk to me.

Don't text me, or even worse, call me, just to discuss about not-so-urgent work-related matters. 

Just, don't.

I need to be left alone today. 

So much that even a text message felt like a harsh, impolite, interruption to my privacy.

I can only stand a very few people today. And you're not one of them so please.

You have no idea how it feels to be crushed by life like this. You have no idea how I gasp for air, trying hard to breath, despite the broken bones, the broken heart, the broken dreams.

You have no idea and I will not be able to give you the idea so please. 

In fact, world, just leave me alone. Leave me, alone.

Bintaro, 11.26 am, hurt beyond help

Oh the thing we avoid so much

There's a strong, black, bitter, coffee for a lazy brain.
But there's no cure, no help, for a wounded heart. 
Nothing but tears.


The only honest cure, the one that we avoid so much.




Bintaro, 10.13 am, sentimental beyond help

the world spins madly on

Change is inevitable.

Resistance is futile. 
The sky is falling. 

And the world spins madly on.

Dreams are leaking into reality.

Synchronicity is everywhere, so strong that it's scary.

And the world spins madly on.


All six lessons in one week.
Too much to bear it's suffocating.
Yet the world spins madly on.

in the face of death

Dearest world, 

Don't ask me how I came up with all these questions. They're just there, in my head, suddenly, as I was bumping in my chair on the rusty bus on my way to the office one morning.

Have I dream enough?

One of my colleagues is leaving the job for a scholarship abroad, in the major that she loves. Another colleague is leaving for another job that servers her higher purpose in life, that is teaching and social works. My other colleague, having recently found out that she's an introvert, realized that she needs to find another job if she wants to stay healthy.

Then came the next question: Have my life been useful enough?

They said a life worth living is the one that gives benefit to other people. Then I wonder, does quantity  matter in this case?

Because I am very sure that up until today, my existence in this world benefits only a very limited number of people, even further down to not more than my mother and my daughter. 

Does it make my existence in this world less useful then?

And the next question: as I was standing at the platform this morning waiting for the train, feeling the morning wind breezing, softly blowing my long tunic and trousers, all black, nothing fancy or fashionable in any way: Do I have what it takes to charm?

Do I need it?

What does it take to charm people actually? And why?

Once I got to the office, I immediately share this pointless reverie to a very dear friend, who then replied by relating to her recent dream about how she met her own death. She said, you know dear, none of those questions you've just asked, none of them matter in the face of death.

And that was the truest truth, bold enough to answer all my questions. 

I'm not against asking questions, indulging the noisy whys and hows moving back and forth in your head, especially those of you with that relentless mind constantly throwing thoughts of the most random topics in the unlikeliest times.

Don't shut them down (because you won't be able to do that anyway). But keep in mind, that there are times when you have to learn to accept things for what they are, because some of them do not really matter in the end.

on the success of small things

I was sitting on a commuter bus stuck in a traffic jam right in front of office buildings and malls when my eyes caught a sight of a woman walking alone on the pavement. There's actually nothing special about her. She's just one of the busy people in the crowd leaving the office building, heading to somewhere on that late afternoon. She wore a black, long, jacket with belt on the waist, a black trousers and a black stiletto shoes, and carried a black leather suitcase. Well maybe that's one thing that I found rather unusual. Her appearance was rather different than the usual pretty career woman with colorful dress and matching bags or shoes. She looked very professional and smart. And at that late cloudy afternoon in Jakarta, she walked alone out of the office building, carrying her leather suitcase, walking to the electronic store nearby. Probably she went there to buy a modem, or a memory stick, or an external hard disk. Or perhaps she just went there to buy a cup of coffee from the coffee shop at the ground floor of the store.

I'd never know because by the time she entered the building my bus has turned to another direction.

But I kept thinking about her. She reminds me of a picture of a sucessful career woman my parents used to have years ago. Smart dressed and powerful, enjoying her time alone at her early thirties, going to the bookstore or a cafe, spending her money the way she likes and  going home at whatever hours she felt comfortable after roaming around the luxurious malls.


To be honest, the enjoying her time alone part probably belong to my imagination, not my parents.

But that was also pretty much the way I had pictured success when I was a kid.

Now after reminiscing the past days I realized that it never crossed my mind that there were other people out there, working as journalists, photographers, dancers, painters, florists, owner of a small bookshops, owner of a small coffee shops, owner of a small music school, people devoted their lives for less tangible things. I am very sure I have came across those people during my adolescence years, but somehow, it never occurred to me that these people work. And succeeded. It seems I had never gave them a thought, and nor did my parents. Or most parents, I suppose.


Recently, I had a conversation with a few colleagues and it got me thinking how success has always been associated with being in a high position in a big corporation. While admiring some people who actually have reached that high position at a very young age, I can't help but wonder what is wrong with living a simple, modest life?


If I have the opportunity, I'd choose to work in a small book shop, in a place that's far from the crowd and noise of the city chaos.


I think this is where the saying 'money is the means not the goals' comes in.


I'd still be needing a constant flow of money to be able to enjoy my quiet life as after my work in the small book shop. But that would be the furthest role money has in my life: a facilitator for me to be able to enjoy life the way I want. The way I want to enjoy life might be different from other people, and it is a very subjective measurement. And this, I think, is where the saying 'money is never enough to satisfy you' comes in. No matter how much money you have, it won't be enough, not if you keep wanting more and more. It's a matter of knowing your limit, and a willingness to live life in its essence.


Again, this is me. Other people might think that it's important to have many other things they don't have yet right now and really, I don't want to judge. Some people do need the things they want to have, some others simply just want to have the things for the sake of having it. I'm learning to be very careful now not to confuse the two.


But I just think it's important to revisit the picture of success that we have.


Some people are made for big things, destined to walk around the earth with sophisticated dress and glossy shoes entering a high rise building, meeting important people, dealing with big scenarios of the nation. I admire them. All the efforts they made to be where they are now, all the time they spent working hard to achieve the sophisticated life that they want. They deserve it and I believe they have a significant contribution to this world.


But there are also some people that are made for smaller things, or rather, less glossy things. These people might not in a high position, might not be a part of a big corporation or organization. They don't have glossy shoes and leather bag. They don't work in a high rise building working on big scenarios involving big money for the nation or a corporation owns the nation or probably even owns half of the world. Or they probably working on a big scenario for the nation but instead of glossy shoes and leather bag, they probably carry a backpack, roaming around the remote islands in this country, wearing casual outfit and rubber sandal. Or they might not be involved at all in a big scenario of the nation. They probably live their life from day to day taking care of flowers, or making beautiful hand crafts to be sold, or teaching little kids singing at local schools, and going to the traditional market every late afternoon to buy food and vegetables and cook for their families. Probably smaller things, but just as significant as the big things.


They are the hands behind the colors you see at the florist or someone else's garden. They are the hands behind the laughter of the children studying on a rundown building of local schools. They are the hands behind the full stomach and burps you might hear on the family dining room. They are the hands behind the small beauties in the world. Small, but not less significant.


I just think, that these people, also need to be recognized of creating a meaningful life, despite what the society defines about success.


They might have the capability to rise above others and speed their way to the highest position in an important company or organization, but they choose the smaller role in life because that's what they want, because there's where their heart lies. There are nothing wasted about them. They are people devoting their life for their passion, for the good of others, far away from the spotlight but working as hard as those who are under it. I think they need to be recognized for their courage to live their truth no matter how unimpressive those things are.

Absolutely nothing wasted about them.

the restlessness of things

The restlessness of not writing.
The restlessness of having too much in your head, but you're not writing.
The restlessness of the stubbornness of sticking with the idea that you can live and breath well and not writing.


I know that that's what happens when I worry too much of what people might think about my writing. Or rather, what I myself might think about my writing. That's what happens when I rely too much on the perfect inspiration to come to me. 


After tossing and turning with the restlessness for about a week, I came to realize that the only thing I can do to get rid of all doubts and uncertainties is by walking through them. There's no point wondering on ways to get around them. Doubts and uncertainties, dearest Self, is as certain as everything else in this universe. The sun rises and sets, the earth spins, the clouds come and go. Uncertainties stay around.


I finally learned, through the painful mental struggle of insisting on not writing, that things will only come to perfection when they are made and created. 


There is no perfect timing, or perfect surrounding, or perfect situation, or perfect mood, or perfect ideas, to turn something into a perfect piece of art. 


There is no perfectly shaped ideas to be written. It will only become perfect if you dig it, mold it, write it and toss it and write it and toss it over and over again. 


There is no perfect mood for the day. It will only become perfect if you decide to seize the day, pull yourself together, blow the dark clouds away to oblivion, breath after breath, until the sky becomes clear. That's when you finally have the perfect day.


There is no perfectly developed skill for a job. It will only become perfect after you take the bumpy ride with all the ups and downs, the happiness and the humiliations, the tears and the laughter of victory. That's when you finally have perfect skill.


I've learned, that things become perfect through hardships and endurance. That the only way to get there (wherever you want it to be) is to take the first step, to take the plunge and falling freely, to walk further until there's no turning back. To think of what you're going to miss at this moment if you don't take the first step, instead of wondering what the future might hold or not, if you don't take the first step.


We just need to keep going. Keep going until that's the only option we have. 






South Jakarta, 1.11pm
I should read Julia's Cameron The Sound of Paper once again. I need to keep on going.

happiness is a choice?

It's funny how there are things that you've heard so many times and you thought you know what it means, but the fact is that you never really absorb what it means until it happens to you.


The most recent one happened to me was about how happiness is a choice. Happiness is your choice. You choose whether you're going to be happy, or miserable, regardless the circumstances. I've heard about it so many times. And though it never really clear to me why and how, I've accepted it as the truth. I don't know how it would felt but I've accepted it as the way things should work.

And I have to say that I'm thankful to be able to actually experience the feeling. 


I've been under the weather for about a week, having bad cough and fever that goes up and down. Yesterday it got really bad; my body was felt like a shipwreck, my head was spinning, the cough was getting worse and it caused me headache. All I wanted to do was sleep on my bed. At home. But there I was at the office, facing the computer screen, doing my works. I wore a thick jacket with a hood, and carried a tumbler containing hot tea everywhere I go. Every now and then I put my head on my desk and closed my eyes, not really sleeping, just trying to ease myself.


What surprised me was that despite everything, I was feeling happy. I found myself dancing on my seat while typing words and numbers into the screen. I looked at the sky outside and it was black, a sign that heavy rain would come down. And if you know the traffic in Jakarta, you'd know that that shouldn't be a good sign. But I was feeling okay. I danced with the body that felt like a shipwreck, I sang with a cracked voice, with a prospect of having to spend no less than 2.5 hours in the road just to get home. 


That's when it hit me, that this is probably what it means when they said that happiness is a choice. 


I could choose to be unhappy that day. I had all the reasons I need to be unhappy for the rest of the day. I don't think I'd consciously made a decision to be happy but perhaps somehow I did. Because I couldn't see anything wrong with the day and I couldn't think of any other reasons why I shouldn't be happy. 


It's a choice you could choose. It's what you choose to feel, regardless the circumstances.


Being a person who carries clouds above her head, I'm sure that choosing to be happy is not an easy thing to do. It requires skill, and skill requires practice. But at least I now know what it really means, and I think that should be a good start :)