Tuesday, December 22, 2015

Silent Knocks

These past months I've received few personal messages telling me that I should write more and that my writing has been missed.
First message struck me as something trivial, but the next ones, from each different individuals, started to seep through me.

I've almost forgotten how therapeutic writing has always been for me.

How it enabled me to overcome some of the biggest obstacles and fears I have yet to face.
I remember how I'd genuinely crave to put my thoughts into words, to inject each and every scattered feelings, to feel as if I was about to explode and that I have to write over and over and over and over of how sad or how happy something, or someone would make me feel.
Writing has always been my comfort zone.

I have been busy doing what I thought as 'living my life'.
Perfecting my what I thought would be the guarantee of my happiness, building what I thought would be my safety net, I forgot what exactly makes me happy.

I am aching for safety, stability, security, and any other things that would keep me away from harm. After all I am only human with reasonable amount of fear and insecurities.

But then I've realized that I have been putting aside my happiness.
Trading my passion for stability.
My source of happiness for security.
And worse, my time, the only thing I could never got back, for constant fear of succumbing into a dull, boring adulthood, and soon will be forgotten as my corpse is ageing and my clock is ticking.

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There's a saying which goes 'The only thing standing between me and my happiness is reality"
But I refuse to believe in that.
The only thing standing between me and my happiness is not reality, it is me.
I have the control over which reality I am living in.
I have the control of taking and putting and balancing which aspect of my life I want to pursue more, or most.
I have almost forgotten that what other people might seen as reality is not the reality I, myself, have to live in.

This is me, getting things out of my chest.
This is me, savouring the comfort writing has always been giving me.

Tuesday, June 23, 2015

If you read this, let me know.

I have been claiming that I have a quarter life crisis.
It is way too early to declare such thing
(make it 3 years too early to be precise)
But it’s easier to call it that way.

One day I could be feeling all fine and breezy.
Like life is good.
Life is a continuum growing process.
Life is full of surprises.

Then on another different time, I’d be feeling weary and dull.
Like everything’s pointless.
Like everything doesn’t have any particular meaning.

I’m not even sure what this feeling is all about.

Most days I’d brush it aside, let is pass and slide away.
Some days I just feel like curling up inside my blanket and form myself into a gigantic burrito.

I have ideas and plans.
Chances and opportunities.
But none of it feels substantial enough for me,
as if they're mere plans with no particular meaning nor reason-to-be.

I’m still figuring it all out,
or so they say.
I have all the time in the universe to figure it all out,
or so I keep telling myself.

I feel like I’m missing something.

I wander and wonder, like it has always been.
Avoiding and hiding.
Searching and absorbing.
Questioning and observing.

Nothing fulfils my numbness nor this voidness in me.

I know I’m craving home.

A home that mutually supports my ideas and dreams.
A home that protects me from my fear.
A home where I can celebrate my progress.
A home with whom I can share a mutual understandings regarding each other's emotional and intellectual being.

A home where I can go back to,
feeling safe and genuinely, alive.

Sometimes I’m tired of wandering and wondering.
But I am nothing close to giving it all up.
That kind of tired where you just feel like going back for a bit and rest.
Recharge your emotional being before you’re ready to conquer whatever it is in your way.

I’m always up to see myself growing and learning.
But it would be nice if only I know that I have a home a can go back to.

Problem is, either I haven't found one, or I let it pass by, or, I don't know.

I don't know.

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Dear home,
Have we, by fate, happen to encountered each other?
Have I, by chance, missed you on my route of finding myself?
Have you, by choice, decided keep it all quite, not to tell me that we could be each other's home?

Dear home, if you're reading this and share my sentiment,
let me know.

Friday, January 2, 2015

First blabber this year

I went through a major blogposts purge back then in 2012 and I promised myself to write more.
Apparently, that didn't work quite well.

Originally this was supposed to be an outlet for me to keep track of myself, so I have something I can reminisce and look back for, sort of a public diary, you can say.
But then again, having several written  journals and social medias where I can freely let my thoughts rumble, this old baby, has once again been neglected.

I remember telling my friends who — thankfully, happen to be my loyal readers (whoa fancy) that I still write, a lot, but it has been slightly modified to a //beta// version, where it is even more publicly accessible — less personal, more relatable, here.
(I remember I posted something about making that account somewhere earlier this year, and whoa it has almost been a year)

I play a lot with metaphors, so naturally, there should be hidden stories & message here and there.
Have fun figuring them out.

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Talking about message, this collection from Liaison de Parfum is a major heartthrob.
Imagine giving someone a message in the form of a perfume. 
Although you need to at least buy 2 of them to form a solid sentence, which means knocking 250 off of your bank.

Done with the intermezzo.
So, shall we go, 2015?

Let me start with a confession here, I've stopped making new year resolution, since, I don't exactly know when.

I remember back then when things where easy peasy, my goals were merely:
1. Learn how to ride a bike 
2. Go to more concerts.
You know what, I'm in my early 20s and I still need an additional safety wheel to ride a bike — which explains why you'd never see me ride any.

I personally think new year resolutions are bullshits.
You get excited for the very first few months — weeks, if you're being honest to yourself,
then everything will start deteriorating and you realise that some shits were bound to happen,
accept fate, face whatever it is that may come in your way,
because you can always have next year for another resolutions, right?
Right? No.

So instead of making yearly resolutions, I'm sticking with my actual long-term goals
(whoa, didn't realise putting both 'long-term' and 'goals' in the same sentence made me feel like a #BOSSLADY)
By deciding which one can be executed first, postponed, improved, even collaborated, I have not been stuck with a '365/6 days time limit'.
While slowly nailing them one by one, I have basically been expanding my goals.

So in short, the distance gets further, the goals get bigger.
I still have a looooo—oolong way there,
but it's fine, it's fun.
Yes, my laptop just decided to auto-corrected the exaggerated 'long' into 'oolong' — the tea,
and I'm too lazy to even go back and fix it so here I am explaining it.

And well, you do realise you need a Yin to your every Yang, right?
So here is how it goes, on the back of one of my journal, I have special spot where I write everything good in it.
No goals, no ambitions, just pure gratefulness.
I remember, some of the lines went as simple (read: stupid) as
'Today the kebab cook gave me a free soda again' or
'I finally found my summer fling, it's a perfume, it's Carven EDT, I'm rocking it forever'— which is a lie,
this winter I'm slowly pushing it to the back of my shelve because apparently, a fling is a fling
— and a bundle of fresh floral notes won't suffice in this colder weather, something heavier is needed.

But hey, you got my point, no?
These whole long-term goals & grateful notes might sound absurd to most of you — but they've been working pretty well for me.

So, anyway, happy 2015 beautiful earth inhabitants.
Please be happy and be awesome,

Much love,