English, Memoir, Racauan

Welcoming Letter to an Old Friend

Hello, M,

My dear friend, my old companion. I owe you my life and my demise and it’s been months since the last time we met. I see you are so fine and healthy and it sickens me, literally.

Today, as usual, you came unannounced. But I should’ve read the signs of your coming since a few days ago, since I’ve been losing sleep, and always worry of nothing. I should’ve read the sign on the sudden storms, and the sudden outburst and sensitivity I had toward my loved ones.

How your boss? Bet she’s busy these days, preparing the upcoming old but new plague. When you are around, I sure miss her, it’s been years since she and I last fucked and yes I do miss her. The way she strangled my neck or cut my wrist, or simply having a joy ride to find her gateway home. Remember that, M, there was always the three of us fucking each other with booze or anything that can get us high and dry.

Your boss has been my best friend as old as you are. But never mind her and her busy schedule. You’re around now, and I just took another lithium so we can be best friends again in my head. Yes, in my head, please. Don’t exposed yourself like today, you almost killed an old lady with a heart attack, and you almost ruin my busines. But I accept you, old friend. Because I remember our ride, and we were happy once so all are forgiven. For today, or for the future, I accept you the way you are, my wicked, radiant, burning, friend.

One of these day, methink, you will get me to your boss. I hope the day never comes but I can’t help but feeling you had a very evil plan for my future.

Whatever. Come to think of it, I have nothing, but too much to lose. Nothing is too much. You are just too much, old friend. I hope you’ll pass by, and let me stay for a while. But if I must go, then I will gladly go.

Come on, let’s hear some more music. It’s not over yet. Keep the lights on.


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English, Racauan

Rest in Ponder (another manic depressive writing)

I don’t think life changes that much for every human, or living being that lived since life was first roam the earth. Existence and consciousness just made it seems special. With that, life has meaning. Because a meaningless life belong only to non sentient being. They don’t need meaning to exist. But let me stop there before I get too Heidegger.

I have a lot of things in my mind. Rambling stuff that most of the time I put in my journal that I called the book of healing. I don’t feel the need to write there anymore, not because I feel that I have healed. I just don’t feel the need to have secrets or control the way I speak my mind anymore. I don’t know if my mind would ever get back to what it used to be, you know, functional. I still have doubts on my own perceptions. But I believe I found the logic of, at least, my own existence.

There will never be a time when I’m not confused, or feel lost. But even in that insecurities or the unknown, I will keep moving forward, toward my end. I don’t know how I will die, in lost or in found. In a lost cause or found glory. I just keep moving, keep working, keep serving, keep helping and once in a while I rest.

I stopped my bipolar meds abruptly. People say it’s dangerous. But I had no money nor time to take care of my mind. I hope I will be okay, but I will accept if I will not be okay. So far, things are going the usual: that is not right. With or without meds, things are not right. But my reaction is kind of different now. My reaction is less angry. I accept all the bad things that happened and will happened in my life. And I embrace the good things, good little things in between disasters. I am enjoying the company of people I love. My friends, colleagues, students, relatives.

The rest, I let rest.

Though these past few days I am restless. My insomnia is back. I know how to sleep but I just don’t want to. I don’t want to sleep just to wake up tomorrow and work again, I want to have more time with myself though I know it’s not possible because I have responsibilities. And those responsibilities are very hard to handle, these days.

Whatever. This writing should be in my journal than in my blog but let just rest it here just because I need to fill this blog up with daily writing. And I think it would be better if someone is reading this, I think this writing is quite safe because it does not contain any suicidal thoughts or depression talk. Just rambling mumbling helpless safe stuff in my head. No evil deeds, no evil needs.

I write this for you my dear readers. thank you for reading this, thank you for having me so far.

Be happy, be healthy. I will be too after I rest.


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Cinta, Eksistensialisme, English, Puisi

8

We are homeless
wandering with our backpack
from one place to another

We went to different direction,
we experience and experiment
with life and people and nature
and folklore and fairytales
and spirits and magical things

Searching for rituals, to be transcended
searching for each other, to be ascended

Sometimes we got really tired
and we rest our head in a place
just to be woken up by the reality
that the place is not ours

Home is nowhere to be found

*

Today we found each other in the intersection of 8
8 is what separate us from each other
8 is the infinite meeting point of two halves
8 is where we apart, and where we shall meet

again and again and again.

*

She said, “You have anchored yourself to a home. I am homeless.”

He said, “I’m not anchored, I am having a vessel.”

She said, “You anchored yourself to that vessel. It’s your home.”

He said nothing. She always wins an argument, she’s that half that wins.

8 is a loop. Infinity loop, with infinite possibilities.

Its the most magical number, the number of reincarnation
of complexity, the ultimate uroboros

“I am building a home,” he wished he said this to her, “but its not mine.”
“it belongs to people who love me. But mine, I have no idea where. Until today.”

He found her as a temple of worship, where his lost soul subside
in her melancholy, anxiety, and wisdom

She found him an idea of a man, that shouldn’t be exist
in this world of cruelty and egos.

He found his true home in 8
she, however, still wanders,
but as constellations change for billions of years
8 will still be a number of infinity,
and when the two halves meet again
one will stay, the other will wander.


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English, Filsafat, Racauan

No Human in Humanity

There is not much of a human in humanity. It’s just a word. A term we invented to tell ourselves that we have meaning in the world. Its the modern word for God or Soul or whatever term we use in describing goodness out of our petty existence. Should we believe that word as people before us believe in God or Good?

It’s up to us, but our belief won’t matter much. You see, many anthropologists stated that human worldview and belief will determined his/her actions and decisions. If we believe in God and Religion, we will act according to that belief, they say. But that’s just bullshit. All men eventually will ruin their belief and faith. Some of us seldom do it, most of us often. It doesn’t mean that we don’t believe in it anymore, we do. But circumstances and practicalities forced us to yield it. Fuck it around. Screw it up and down. And we will ask for forgiveness, just like King Claudius from Shakespeare’s Hamlet. And after that, we will fuck it again and again and again. And in our deathbed, we will ask forgiveness for the last time for having fucked our faith too much.

There is no way to be consistent. Life just does not work that way.

There is this book by Jim Holt, “Why Does The World Exist?”. Holt tried to give reasons of existence from various point of views. Like all philosophy books, Holts’s book problematized our existence deeper, suspending every explanation available. For me, the book was saying that the answer of Why Does The World Exist is nothing and everything. A paradox just like human being. Just like human’s faith. It is problematic, and problem is a big part of existence. If the book were to be compare to a film, I would say it’s Monty Phyton’s The Meaning of Life.

Existence has to be filled with creativity and discovery, we made it from the God-given (or evolution based) instrument called mind. Considering all things are made up based on our mind, so yeah.

For me everything is bullshit. Some of them have to be considered as real shits, others we have to take seriously–especially if it concerns other people that we care about. That’s when we say, “This is serious shit! ” I have a problem in creating a priority scale for myself, but if I stopped thinking about it, it’s gonna be real simple. Do anything necessary to survive and to make people you love, and yourself happy.

Because you know, the real reality that we cannot escape is just death. Everything else are just imaginations made from the dialectic of action and reaction. Death is inevitable, and we spent quite amount of time to pursue it. In every unhealthy and excess actions, we get closer by the seconds. So while we’re at it, might as well enjoy ‘humanity’ for whatever that means. Beside, after we are all gone, the universe remains. Humanity is nothing but everything in our language and short life span.

***

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