Shame, in this time and age, free speech means the illiterate will orate.
They disguise blatant hate into chants of freedom, use taboo symbols to mark innocents, spit at whoever disagrees, kill whoever looks as white as oat milk (so much for free speech). And they will hate Sydney Sweeney for being a beautiful American girl with good jeans. And they will hate those who comment blue hearts on everything they see. And they will hate all things blue.
I hop around with my Forclaz waist bag holding Lila, some water, and Pocari Sweat supplies. You carry a drawstring bag that apparently fits everything else. In Singapore’s urban jungle we had collectively decided to do a hike up a 7 km trail, which makes me giddy with joy. The path we are choosing is considered moderate/difficult. You’ve been here before, once with a friend. I ask you to navigate. I’m not allowing myself to exert any more energy than I have to.
You begin with the basic questions. How long am I on a business trip? What am I currently doing? How was Damai and the baby? Which part of Singapore does she live in? You laugh when I say Tampines. It’s too far away from everywhere else in the city except the airport. But I loved her HDB.
I jokingly ask why everyone was sweating profusely. The trail seems easy to conquer. Some paths were blocked for maintenance. Whilst others panic, we just laugh it off and try to find another trail.
After all these years we still have the exact same pace for everything. The way we think, the way we move. I don’t feel left behind or pressured to move faster, like how I feel in bigger groups. We just flow. Uncles run past us from every side, each of them impressing us at different paces. You tell me living here encourages you to do more exercise; all that home weights training and weekly run. The fit uncles being one of the reasons. You do look fit, I’ll give you that. The incline is mostly bearable but gravel-slippery at some points, but still bearable with normal walking shoes.
We talk about work. I ask about your siblings. Your little sister is going to be in middle school soon. Life seems to have moved faster when we aren’t noticing. It’s been five months since I last saw you and I wouldn’t have expected you to suddenly have silver in your hair. I must admit it makes you look a little bit wiser. We stop in the middle of our tracks and encounter the most well-mannered monkeys. We even found a family with a little one. And then, more inclines. I now know why everyone’s sweating like crazy. We laugh about it and keep pushing through.
We finally make it to the TreeTop Walk. It really is worth the hike. It is a one way bridge so we couldn’t spend too much time, but we take some photos and wonder about the bridge safety guy (did he have to trek to work every single day?).
There are hundreds of stairs to climb after. You give one look at me and we both giggle, not even having to say a word. We finish the trail in record-time of around two-and-a-half hours. Decide to stretch our legs for a bit. You ask me if I wanted to have that delicious curry rice in Bugis I once told you about. The one where the chef kept stealing glances at me because he was interested. I look at you blankly, thinking to myself how in the world do you remember that little detail in the story I told you five, six years ago?
We end up walking to Upper Thomson to take the brown line to Maxwell. You take me to your favorite ice cream place. My treat, you say. Most flavors were honey-based. I try the Manuka flavor; yours is the Cookies and Cream. We share a third cup, an Apiary special. The ice cream helps with the difficult conversation that follows. On life and priorities. On love and loss. On the question that if we were to meet again in five years, would I still be crying about the same thing?
It then dawns upon me why we’re best friends. And I know I said the right thing when a few years ago I told you that whomever I marry, you will be the best man, my best man. You remember every little thing I’d said (weeks, months, years ago) and kept them in your heart. And talking to you was always easy (a ridiculously great feat for two INTJs). We didn’t have to put on performative masks. We could just be.
Full of Apiary ice cream, we decided to visit a bookstore before grabbing dinner at the nearest food center. My heart was heavy knowing the day would eventually end, and that we would have to wait another few months to see each other again.
We took the brown line before parting ways: myself alighting first at Orchard, and you at Caldecott after to transit home. I take a few brief seconds to memorize your face before saying goodbye. Frame that smile. And see if it will change the next time we meet (I hope not). Too many people change too much under the wings of time.
I look at our photos later in the night and marvelled at how we smiled ear to ear. Crinkles and dimples and all. The one precious friendship that made it so easy to breathe, easy to take 24,000 steps. Easy like Sunday morning.
A postcard from Armenia, March 2025. Overlooking the biblical Mountains of Ararat, where Noah’s Ark rested.
Kayli King is my current comfort backpacking influencer. Gear Aid’s Heroclips are my best friend now. I am obsessed with Matador’s Flatpaks and saving up for the towels and blankets. I bought a Scrubba bag, in mini size, with my best friend. Sea-Band helps me avoid nausea on land and on travels. I’m brilliant at packing light now, at least compared to the previous year. I’m looking to purchase a Sea-to-Summit clothesline. These gears keep me afloat, keep me excited to live life easier. Keep me looking forward to the next trip. Keep me on my toes. Alive.
The deed is done: ammonium thioglycolate meets virgin hair. The reinvention of self is almost complete. And now we wait.
A text at 2AM sent to the lover: I wanted Dan’s Burgers. So that’s what we got for dinner after work. Simple old smash burgers, fries, and one vanilla milkshake. I wanted to check out a hiking backpack after, so we went to my favorite sports store (he was patient all in all). Bought some lemon water at a coffee shop; he grabbed a sticker for me because he knew I’d want something to do with it in my journal. In the end, I got a safari hat. / Luteal phase hormones were kicking in (I wanted the world to end). He held me as I went through the motions. We had Japanese curry rice for our next dinner and went shopping for some clothes for Islalila. I went to check out (but he promised to get them for me, so he did). We bought some oranges at the store right before they closed. I held his hand tight, not wanting to let go. / He always had matcha latte (no sugar, no ice) in the fridge waiting, to wake me up from my dreamless sleep. And was always gentle with my weekend oversleeping schedule. And a really long hug to start the day. / I never could understand what I did to deserve a love like that. But then I looked in the mirror and found the answer.
Bring two bags for performance day. Two costumes in. Props in. Two shoes in. Should I bring comfortable clothes to change to? Don’t forget the silicone pads. Extra band-aids for your feet, remember ballerinas also wrap their feet in strange things. Memorize your lines, say them out loud. Exude confidence. Makeup, makeup. Maybe I should bring a mirror of my own to the office. There is not enough time to order a large Clara-sized bow for my supposedly Nutcracker-themed attire. My heart is going to explode. Everything has to be very calculated. My partner must think I’m insane, visiting Decathlon many times in a month, two consecutive days in a week. But the possibilities are endless. My adventurous and sojourning heart is nourished. I cannot wait to purchase Blacky (Forclaz Travel 500 40L). Should I wear Forky or Blacky to Cambodia? Will the cabin crew be strict enough on cabin allowances? I need a box just for travel things – that small waist bag, compression socks, compression cubes, carabiners, hiking gears and the likes. What kind of shoes should I wear to Angkor Wat? Don’t forget to book buses and re-plan the hotels. I hope the eVisa for Georgia gets approved on Tuesday. I am turning 26 in a few days. I am not so excited about that. I haven’t finished the newsletter for work. People are counting on me. I need to take my meds before performance day. I cannot risk fainting on stage, that wouldn’t be funny. I had wanted both my parents and my partner to come see me. But sometimes I have to pick and I never choose. I tend to want everything I cannot have. It’s a little bit past midnight now. I have rehearsals at noon and the whole morning to prepare. I hunger for complex carbohydrates, the last of my luteal phase in full swing. I get distracted and inspect Decathlon websites to download their image assets, a small preparation on crafting the most comprehensive digital inventory I’m attempting. Do I need a clear case for my Macbook Air? Maybe what I need a case for is my fragile heart. The thought process is not processing. The connections aren’t blinking. The brain laughs at silly little me. I collapse at the thought.
I’ll get it for your birthday, he said.
An embodiment of lifelong dreams and vision boards, wrapped in turquoise and teal. Subtly calling to the mountains, but reminding her of the oceans. The most elegant form of running away—shut down all the noise and leave the world behind. My dearest, dearest Forky. To the summits we go.
“And not everyone will get it, not everyone will understand. That’s alright, no biggie. But the world really is so much bigger than the city you grew up in. The world really is so much more than your day job and numbers on a screen. And one day you’ll learn to believe it, too. Even if it means believing it at the ripe age of twenty-eight, or thirty-two, or fifty-five. Doesn’t matter. It’ll make sense someday and it will set your adventurous souls ablaze. On fire. Maybe you’ll still have time, maybe it won’t be too late. Or maybe you’ll be content in not ever seeing the world outside your box. I need to accept that life works differently for most people. Whatever works for you.”
His Belgian Shepherd was called Amy. And she’d only receive orders in English, like, “Amy, come!” The neighbors then thought her name was “Amyca”. They had a good laugh about it.
Jakarta, October 2024. Back at Brown Tree Paperie and adopted a second daughter.
There is a quiet hollow, a strange emptiness in the air. I know better than to expect your message on my phone; you would’ve been one to respect my decision. I sit up on the bed, shoulders slouching although they feel a little lighter. Didn’t you just tell me on this very same bed, that you loved me, last night? And didn’t I say them back, although I wanted you to disappear? I want you to be here but I want you gone. I want you to tell me nice nothings while I pack up my heart and leave. I realize I must have lost my mind. All of my plushies told me so. They told me I made a grave mistake. Deep down in my heart I knew the same. The Sunday routine happens like clockwork for a few hours, and then lunchtime hits. Everything I see reminds me of you. For the first time in many years, I made it to a wholesale grocery store I used to frequently visit when I was a teenager. That was the one thing I kept forgetting to tell you: I love doing grocery runs with you. It is to me the sweetest, most comforting thing to do with a partner, we could play house before the house presents itself. I had always wanted to take you here, and that other supermarket in North Jakarta. I don’t know why it never crossed my mind to do it in any other time than this. I saw a dispenser and thought of you. You never really got it at the end. I wonder if you still needed one. If I needed to get one for you. Would you have accepted my apology then? For not knowing better; that out of all of life’s annoyances, you were the constant, not the variable. Did you know minimarts had drive-thru lanes now? Such an odd and marvelous thing! I grab my phone to let you know—but stop myself. It hasn’t even been a day, and I have stories to tell you still. I want to know how your boring Sunday went. Did you watch Only Murders in the Building? What did you have for lunch? Are you working on a weekend? When are you going back to Jakarta? The Message app is still open on my MacBook, the last photo you sent me still downloading. I delete the last message I was about to send you a few days ago, but didn’t because you called first. The Deli Bakes released a nice lunchbox – one that I would’ve bought for myself because it looked so nostalgic yet so practical. I would’ve shared it to you on Instagram. I had enjoyed our last trip to Bandung and I didn’t tell you that enough. I wasn’t being myself and I hated it. And I hate myself for believing that you also hated me for it. I isolate myself, as usual, running and hiding and playing hide and seek. When all in all I just wanted to be found. Don’t you think it odd, the hopeless romantic spending time away from her lifelong lover? The most ridiculous logical fallacy ever told.
I didn’t know my partner of almost three years had a childhood dog with majestic black fur and a severe drooling habit. I didn’t know my parents, newly wed, had looked for a home near the neighborhood I live in. It catches me by surprise how little I know the people closest to me. And how most people would perceive me the same way: knowing little to nothing at all.
Acting like adults until I realized we’re no longer kids (you can’t call it acting). Browsing for the one-bedroom wonder to get me out of the cramped but cozy studio; this would be his first investment, his property. Tried some Korean comfort food in a small restaurant, which I loved. Went grocery shopping for materials to cook dinner with. Made some spuds with chili and cheddar. Watched Only Murders in the Building.
Freeze and fawn. Freeze and fawn. Freeze and fawn. Freeze and fawn.
The air conditioning unit keeps leaking.
The drops of water falling on the makeshift bucket would go tap-tap-tap and wake me up from my lucid dreams. I let go of the little brother I never had, his little hands hanging on the monkey bars, and slowly drift awake, thinking, I do not want to go through another new day, thank you very much.
Almost twenty-six years on earth and I am already sick of it.
The tongue is sore from licking newly scaled teeth. The heart is heavy like it was poisoned with lead. The only thing I think of doing is call upon the name of my God. One word. His name and nothing else. No other words come out. No praise or reverence, no prayers or complaints. I tug at the bed covers and pull myself in a curl; on my side, knees bent, like a baby in the womb. On the darkest days nothing feels comforting; on the darkest days, not even exhaustion has the upper hand—it would always be the sinking feeling. My parents keep texting their daily good mornings, sharing their devotionals and health-related videos. The ringing notification makes me numb. Their only daughter is dying out of sadness and they will never know. They will always think of her as the strong one, the resilient one. She will never become what they want her to be. I have an important meeting at nine. Thank God for the pandemic and working from home. I get up and call upon His name once more. No other words develop. I do not know what to say. I’d rather not check my messages. I cannot fathom the probability of loss, let alone face it headstrong.
The air conditioning unit keeps leaking in the wrong timing; my tear ducts are doing the same. Like the whole world is ending. And all I have to care about is making sure the water doesn’t flood through. But I’ve been here twenty-six years. And I know the girl who wishes not to be resilient, still has some little thing left in her to clean the mess.
The air conditioning unit.
Leaks.
Still.
In four months and a week I would have been another year older and I hope I would have changed for the better. You know it’s getting bad again when you fall back to old habits, the ones that drag you into that never-ending dark spiral. Nothing feels right. The work weighs down and the grief overwhelms. Triggers pile up and explode. BOOM! Hands go numb and head goes wild. Tears fall and heart stops. Am I dying? I can’t breathe, I’m suffocating. I want to be eating borsch in Moscow with no burden of the world. To be the freezing girl who spilled sparkling water on the way to Teriberka, bright and vibrant and alive and beautiful. I don’t want to be stuck in failed January sevens. I just want it to be easy. I just want it to be easy. I just want it to be easy. I just want to be held and to be loved. Unconditionally and constantly and securely. I just want to be loved in all of my undertones. And now I understand why all fragile men, at the very end, come running back to the Father’s arms. We all just want to be held, after all.
Jakarta’s humidity, and running in the pouring rain with a best friend: tried Busy Cheese Café and Em Gelato, loved the chocolate truffle cheesecake and strawberry cheesecake gelato a little bit too much. Conversations about life and love, reminiscing memories and nostalgia. MRT rides to Brightspot and a jewelry shopping sesh. Closed the day with a cozy, comforting traditional meal at Leko. She’s a real one, this girl. We’ve seen each other’s highs and lows throughout most of this life.
Friday mornings at your place takes me back to Sunday mornings at my childhood home. My parents’ bedroom door open. My father’s favorite perfume and the cold air slowly seeping out, bergamot and lavender particles filling the air, me being six years old in the shower, taking it all in. It was that specific moment and that specific sensory experience, nothing more and nothing less, that was etched in my brain until this very day. Your hug comforting like a father’s. My memory disoriented like a lover’s. My heart gentle and defeated. Like a daughter’s.
Gelak tawanya lembut, katanya, “Sudah lama aku tidak berusia dua puluh lima.” Timpalku, “Sudah lama sekali aku tidak merasa secukup ini.” Bagaimana tidak? Seluruh duniaku, tersenyum di hadapanku. Seluruh duniaku, yang betul-betul mengenalku. Merayakanku.
I stared in disbelief at scattered shoe boxes and people rushing around with high adrenaline, trying to find a pair of sneakers that would fit them and their budget. Le Coq Sportif, my favorite sportswear store, was having its clearance sale. My heart sunk. They’re closing all of their stores in Indonesia, and the one near my apartment was their last one.
Scanning what was left of the store for shoe picks, I thought of all the memories I’ve had with this certain brand. It was the only French brand I wore religiously, especially for sneakers. It was, plainly, the only brand store I would walk boldly into to browse, knowing full well I’d walk out with at least one purchase.
I think it’s funny to think that all of the places where you made memories are slowly being taken away from you, one by one. Old and empty shopping malls that used to be crowded, the ones you used to visit as a kid. Bookstores (QB and Kinokuniya, I’m talking about you), even hardware stores (Home DIY!). Each of them divulge to myself a certain feeling, all the same but all different.
Because time flies and the world evolves, we lose these physical places and buildings at one point or another. And for someone who is especially sensitive with huge feelings on her sleeve, this could be an alien thing to understand, because the grief is extremely difficult to overcome. It feels like losing a memory, especially when your brain keeps implementing the ‘out-of-sight-out-of-mind’ principle.
Keeping a journal and a blog helps. Everything I experience, everything I have, I document; I collect things that people would otherwise treat as trash in digital inventories, notebooks, and organizers. It keeps the fear of forgetting at bay. But it doesn’t contain my bigger fear of missing them.
Distraught (and mostly sad), I chose to purchase a white shoe with lilac and turquoise accents on it, one that I had been wanting for a while now. My love got a similar one, but in another color meant for the male collection. We also decided to buy all-white sneakers, as they were on sale and the prices were very reasonable. I got a sweater that was a little too big for my size, thinking that I could wear them when I missed the brand, for comfort. I even bought several sizes of paper bags, so I could treat them as keepsake.
My grief is calmed down by the fact that in its lifetime, I had influenced at least three people in buying from the brand, including the people I love. That it was loved, that it was cherished. That in another life, I would have said with pride, I did my best in loving you until the very end, and I would not ever change a thing.
Haven’t seen you in ages
now you have a suffix to your name
Was trying to make you believe in love again
so I found you a match
Wanted your heart to find him
there really isn’t a catch
These days my energy is conserved for home decorating, loving, and surviving, and sometimes even the three tasks feel daunting. An era of absolute calm amidst the absolute chaos of a life, ridiculously bright with excitement and on some days dark like a black hole.
These are the days where I am understanding myself more, even if for just a little bit; I love bohemian, hippie styles, in fashion and aesthetics. I am in a cozy bubble where owning two Himalayan salt lamps is such a majestic pride, the orange glow radiating a calmness like I have never experienced. I am also entering my Scrub Daddy era: religiously collecting both Daddy and Mommy so they could be together, even if the Mommy would wear out sooner as I’m using it more.
I finally purchased the typewriter keyboard I’ve been wanting for some time, in the beautiful butter ivory colour, and yes, waiting makes having things much more sweeter.
I’ve been listening to the Onwards and Upwards podcast by Hope (Watson)—one that has been inspiring me a lot to get out of one of the hardest slumps in this season—and I’m loving it. Podcasts may be the next best thing that I’m enjoying.
After years of using the application, I am finally finding meaning in Pinterest; even to the extent of creating many magical boards and using them as widgets on my iPad home screen.
On another note, my love just bought his iPad Mini 6 after lots of consideration, and even got his Apple Pencil engraved in the Apple Store at Causeway Bay. His excitement triggers my joy, and the chain reaction is strong enough to keep me going through today without dozing off for a minute. I mean, for an avid iPad lover like myself, this is history! I am thrilled.
Thursday is a national holiday and I cannot wait to take the time for myself. I might even go to a salon to get my hair styled. We’ll see.
Truly, life becomes much easier when you are starting to understand yourself. And I hope it only gets kinder and kinder from here. A promise I am making to myself: in life, I will try to keep savouring these short and sweet chapters. The ones that feel like fall.
It is 11 PM on a working weekday. My sheets are brand new. I am listening to 1940s romantic music, tucked on the right side of the bed after hours of watching Gilmore Girls. My brand-new Hintuturo Bluhen Notebook arrived and my obsession with green and pink colorway has (only slightly) returned. More of the greens, just a touch of pink, a perfect combination.
This is the chapter of my life where taking care of plants bring me joy. This is the chapter of my life where I learn to stop thinking and live more instead. This is the chapter of my life where I am finally understanding what it feels like to romanticize the mundane. This is the chapter of my life where I start taking care of myself seriously (yes, hypochlorhydria, I’m talking about you) after dozens of sleepy spells in the last week.
The weeks are rolling by like a sped up version of a song, blatantly breaking sound barriers, making your ears bleed with little to no shame. How is it almost September? I thought I was forever frozen in January! I am taking each day at a time, slowly but surely; enjoying challenges in every working day, answering each question with poise, with ease. Saturdays are much kinder, as I find myself falling more deeply in love with my partner after each passing day. Sundays are still strange. Sometimes a bit too much. But a little bit more bearable.
On another note, I am proud to say that I have started my healing process. I can see now with clear eyesight how it is to differentiate between what is right and wrong in life and love. It is true that my parents have taught me a kind of love I aspire to have. But at the same time they have also taught me a kind of love I will forever avoid. Being able to understand that without clouded judgment, is to me, a brilliant achievement beyond any aspired perfection.
A head full of ideas and a heart full of passion; mix the two and you get a tinker. I am obsessed with this new setup – a touch of vibrancy to light up the studio hallway.
For the cork board on the left I am using IKEA FLÖNSA, a memo board with pins. I hung it on the wall using 3M Command Strips – one strip at the top center of the board would suffice, since the board itself weighs less than a kilogram. I decided not to pin anything to ensure the corkboard stays smooth, but to use washi tape for lovely verses and reminders, core memories, pictures of my love…
On the right side we have IKEA BEKVAM, their spice rack made of solid aspen – lovely, because when styled accordingly will elevate the look of any room. To apply it without drilling, I used IKEA ALFTA hooks as a replacement for “nails” on the walls, they fit perfectly on the screw slots. They are similar to 3M Command Sawtooth Picture Hangers – originally made to hang frames and paintings (I got this idea from this blog post). Just be mindful of the items you are displaying so that it doesn’t exceed both hooks’ weight limit.
I really can’t wait to decorate more and make this space feel more like mine. Here’s to saving up for a house, too, with more walls for memories to display, more floors for my love and I to dance with.
Started a new role with endless possibilities, found a new feeling of calm amidst a ridiculously chaotic routine, and understood that joy comes from being with the people you love, doing things you adore. I learned Indonesian Sign Language for the first time and went to my first secular concert. I started my Saturday morning pound fit routine, even revamped my blog. I learned how to drive. My blankie made it to a contemporary installation, so I got invited to its sunset preview. The busy hustle and bustle kept me alive, as the chaos ended up forcing me to make time for the things I care about. But most of all, my patience multiplied tenfold. Might say that the month of June became a wonderful closure to a strange semester.
“What is your current favorite color?”
“Never in my life have I ever thought that I’d be saying this, but… probably, the color of milk. Something along the lines of broken white.”
The concert took place on June 16, a Friday night. We spent a good 45 minutes looking for a parking spot; an impossible feat, for the whole complex was crowded by badminton enthusiasts watching Indonesia Open. As we finally accepted our fate, the fact that we would be late, we found a parking space and ran to Tennis Indoor Senayan like our lives depended on it.
We bought tickets for Festival B, and there were crews everywhere to guide you to the right section. I could hear the music playing, and my heart leaped as it was one of my ultimate favorites from Yura, Risalah Hati. We didn’t make it on time, though, as she finished the song when we stepped inside the arena. But the crowd was magical, energy was running high, and a fun tune started playing. After three songs, including singing along to Intuisi with my whole heart, I remember thinking, ‘This is such a wonderful moment, but I know I’ll end up tearful in just a few minutes.’
That’s when Yura told us the story of how the came up with Sudut Memori. It was not just a love loss or the end of a romantic relationship that resulted in such a beautiful song with grievous lyricism; it was death, it was grief. It was a pre-wedding photoshoot of a random couple at a cemetery somewhere, that led to the birth of the song. And it was the moment she told this story when my face and Risang’s got flashed on the jumbotron, my expression dreamy and somewhat ethereal, and some people started texting me on WhatsApp, saying, “Hey, I saw your face on the screen!”
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We had the pleasure of attending Aul and Ovi’s wedding, a delightful occasion that also served as a small reunion for my university friends.
What followed was a gentle and slow-paced Saturday. We treated ourselves to some gelato, where we found really cool books, and then went to get my love’s watch band resized. We had some sushi after and went to The Little Mermaid exhibit. Always finding joy in the mundane: “Love, books, and jellyfish.”
A whole year ago I was thinking: she deserved better and today here I am smiling, realizing, she won in life, marrying the man of her dreams. It was lovely seeing you again after all these months, Bebek Damai, and I wish you the happiest joy upon your upcoming marriage. You deserve nothing but the very best.
It was raining when I woke up—and my ears were once again alert to years of accustomed sounds; the oh-much-too-early breakfast, the bold cleaning routine asking to be recognized, the hushed purr of the old car’s machinery, instrumental guitar music blaring through speakers, and the strange coldness and humidity that blanketed the whole room from the night before. The dreams here were always too vivid, too strange for the liking, too otherworldly—perhaps that’s why little me had always been so different from girls her age.
This table, this pitter-patter of early rain and the lack of even the slightest sunlight, takes me back a decade back: 2012 Tumblr days, specifically noette Tumblr days. That was a golden age—the dystopian world reigning left and right, my Hunger Games obsession (poke: @burnintwelve!) at full force and the lonely teenage girl coming of age, lost in her fantasy of her self-written world of Liferstone and who knows what else. Life was much too simple back then. Colorful and lively, quiet but rebellious for itself. Love, company, and comfort was found on the web and in books, not in hearts and/or people. They were my safe haven.
I think that’s the most ironic and beautiful thing at the same time, the fact that a majority of my life was this room, this house. Vivid imaginations had let me explore the world for free, traveling without knowing any bounds, fantasizing about everything without having to pay any kind of currency.
Lunch at the dining table, staring directly at what I would call the wilderness backyard. Ideas about lush forests and secret Narnia-like dreamlands seeping through the cracks on the stone walls.
Time is running out and I write with great urgency, not wanting this rush of creativity, this fuzzy feeling, to ever run out. I take a deep breath and let it out, only to realize that the time, has indeed, passed by without pause. In conclusion, there is no going back.
My first birthday living alone, a birthday I will cherish for eons to come. Almost everything went wrong throughout the whole day, but nothing could take away from the joy I had. From minor scratches on the most loveliest gift to a deconstructed, melted cake due to my not having a freezer, I let go of every imperfection and enjoyed every moment for myself, something my closest confidantes know I am very proud of.
Thank you for making me feel loved, thank you for making me the happiest. Your presence is my greatest gift. I ask of nothing more.
What better way to celebrate the joyous occasion of my beloved’s homecoming after spending a few weeks in Europe than building a LEGO set—specifically the set that he bought home from his travels? We had a marvelous time together. I have to admit, seeing the Starry Night set in person totally converted me. It’s a complex, beautiful set that I will need to add to my personal collection soon.
Nine months have passed (well, technically, eight-and-a-half) since my first day of work. The pandemic hasn’t ended, it only just got worse. People I know, left and right, are fighting the virus like mad. Some have been infected, others have lost loved ones. Everyone is struggling, but sometimes they don’t know who the enemy is. Sometimes I wonder if this is how it feels like to live in a young adult fantasy novel.
Growing up, you realize that there are unlimited amounts of outlook on life which only you choose to take. The past few days taught me full well that I should not, ever, take my blessings for granted. The time I have with the people around me, the work I have, the tiny little moments passed by seconds ago without ever having the chance to be sought or thought about twice.
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Another 3 PM entry, but it rained today. Poured. As if the rain needed to wash off all kinds of worries and anxieties we both had. As if to remind that at the end of every sunny, hot, scorching day, everything will again be okay. Will again be beautiful like the one you read in books. Will again have its fairytale ending, the closure of a beautiful, melancholic, serendipitous movie…
Today I am overwhelmed with the purest kind of joy, it has not yet made any sense to me. Maybe happiness has left for too long that I felt ecstatic, embracing her again for the first time in ages.
Not trying to be melancholic or poetic. Just being real.
The car ride to Baywalk; Danu’s playlist blasting through the car’s speakers. Telenovia by Reality Club playing in the background. Yellow tops and mustard checkered shirts.
Sushi on a round plate as a so-called birthday cake, beef curry katsu donburi, and some miso soup. Warm ocha as the preferred drink. The twin a.k.a. birthday person coming late—who ended up choosing the same meal as yours truly.
Promises made. Expectations high. Let us wait and see.
A friend coming over to enable us playing at Pandora X. The more, the merrier, right?
The escape room. The house that—at the very end—finally belonged to Edward Dantes, the (finally) Count of Monte Cristo. Something he very much deserved. Rooms that made me feel like I was in a Tintin comic, or an espionage movie. Paintings and codes and locks here and there, gathering all the information we needed to find to solve the riddle. Climbing on and off vertical stairs, getting foot cramps and trying not to show it. Him catching my arm before I fell on the second floor where more clues were supposed to be found. Finding more and more clues. Asking the gamemaster for help. And realizing that some things were too obvious to be seen in broad daylight (or this time, low UV lighting). Going back to the first room to find hidden clues. And back again. A good one-and-a-half hours well spent with good -NTJ people. Something I would do over. And over. And over. Again.
Drinks at KOI. A hazelnut milk tea with no ice and no sugar. Danu got the lemon Yakult and Sof got the brown sugar thing. Incidents with the lipstick and wet tissue. Timed photos. Smiles. Laughs. It was the small moments that mattered; and these moments mattered more than enough. These moments were the ones that you’d keep for a million lifetimes. The ones you would not discard, even if your brain’s memory had to throw shit away to the back of your head.
We continued by walking outside, to the balcony, staring at the lights from cruises, boats, and nearby buildings. Talked about the future. Danu wanted to get a cruise ship later on when he’s got some cash; sounds like a good idea. We could always party there. Fun. A party of good friends. And as usual, we’ll go home with a good feeling, a good kind of joy. More timed photos. Laughs.
“Please don’t cry.”
“I’m not crying.”
‘Thank you’s and ‘Goodbye’s.
Slow drive home. Telling Danu I looked like Fathia Izzati from Reality Club. Good laughs. High for the next few hours. Got the best sleep of 2019.
And always… always thankful.
“Emang segala sesuatu butuh proses… dan asal disabarin pasti ada jalannya.”
Yesterday. This was the one plan. One that was executed perfectly, clean cut, a murder mystery with no evidence left. It left me with a peace better than any ocean’s calm.
The excitement in everyone’s hushed voices, the dark green shirt. The confusion. The long walk that felt like forever couldn’t end. The smiles. The touch. I should have savored more of the moment.
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