Where to begin –
I am sorry for the radio silence. I wish I can say that I have not been writing because I have been busy writing elsewhere but unfortunately not. I do not even know what I have been busy with. Work and stuff, but that is a classic bullcrap. It should hold no justice of justifying months of absence – nothing is, not even heartbreak. All I know I am becoming more and more Millennials, choosing social media as the source of distraction from doing everything else that is soul-fulfiling because hey, it is so much easier (and mindless). Times I spent for writing have been taken away for, well, whatever it is. Of course, here by writing it means hours of drafting and drafting and drafting and re-writing and so on, you get the idea, other than it is time-consuming, it is, too, soul-consuming with the ever growing of self-criticism. So.
I thought of it, writing I meant, but it goes as far as a white blank page and blinking stripe. Then soon the arrow aims for the x, close tab, and the light shuts. I tried to compensate by doing more reading. Mostly news, first thing in the morning, as if understanding politics would make me more of an adult and that should make me feel better of whatever it is. Might as well jump in when the water is cold, I thought. Sometimes I read short fiction, too. Anything's under four minutes-read. Because somehow I always feel in a hurry of being somewhere else, having something else to do.
Other times, I am trying to read more of Indonesian writings. Poetries, short stories. It's beautiful. I jolted down a shitty rhymed paragraph or two, as if it is my first time learning the language – or even the culture, too. It's awkward, and raw, and stupid. But most often, I find myself looking back to old photos. The ones on the Beach. At the Whiskey Bar. Park. Under the English sun. Listening to playlist of The Long Walk to Campus or Wish I Were Here Soundtrack. Which ultimately leads to a thought of perhaps: I don't live in the now anymore. I am somewhere in between 2011 and 2016. And I don't know how to come back. What if, what if the only place you'd feel happy is in the past?
I thought of it, writing I meant, but it goes as far as a white blank page and blinking stripe. Then soon the arrow aims for the x, close tab, and the light shuts. I tried to compensate by doing more reading. Mostly news, first thing in the morning, as if understanding politics would make me more of an adult and that should make me feel better of whatever it is. Might as well jump in when the water is cold, I thought. Sometimes I read short fiction, too. Anything's under four minutes-read. Because somehow I always feel in a hurry of being somewhere else, having something else to do.
Other times, I am trying to read more of Indonesian writings. Poetries, short stories. It's beautiful. I jolted down a shitty rhymed paragraph or two, as if it is my first time learning the language – or even the culture, too. It's awkward, and raw, and stupid. But most often, I find myself looking back to old photos. The ones on the Beach. At the Whiskey Bar. Park. Under the English sun. Listening to playlist of The Long Walk to Campus or Wish I Were Here Soundtrack. Which ultimately leads to a thought of perhaps: I don't live in the now anymore. I am somewhere in between 2011 and 2016. And I don't know how to come back. What if, what if the only place you'd feel happy is in the past?
