English, Memoir, Racauan

On Age and Learning

Pramoedya Ananta Toer, a famous Indonesian author once said that same people are like trees; they are hardened once they get older and prone to be broken by the wind or the storm. So can you Imagine getting old in these time of technological advancement, when everything is changing so fast and rapid. New apps and softwares are being produced everyday to help human life to be more effective and efficient.

I’m 36 years old and I have passed the eras where we were still using type writers, word star, and today we are using computers and Smart Keyboard with auto correct that get smarter day by day.

I still remember learning to edit video from cassettes tape on VHS or Betamax. How hard it was to transfer a file from those tapes to editing computers. And today we have apps to edit video just from our phone, with broadcasting quality.

With these facts, it’s easy to be irrelevant. And being irrelevant is scary, the scariest thing in human life span. But I know some people who are old but updated. I learn a lot from talking to them, and most of them have the sama characteristic.

First, they are avid readers. They read a lot of stuff, books, films, in an old fashion way. These readings has made their brain to develop gracefully to old age, because their imagination is active. Brain, like any other parts of our body, needs exercise.

Second, they refuse to be idle. It might be because post power syndrome or simply habit, these smart old people are so use to work, to the point that they would be sick if they’re not working. Working ethos is a must to get into the trend.

Third and last, they like to listen to young people, not just talking about their experience. They see young people as mentors to live in the new age. Digital native is like an exotic tribe to them, and they want to learn a lot from the young. There is no ego in learning new things.

In a nutshell, I aim to get these three quality. I want to be able to always learning. The older I am, the more things I have to learn. I hope that I can keep being humble, because with age, comes achievements and responsibility. And with those two, life becomes slippery. I just have to walk slowly.

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Eksistensialisme, English, Puisi, Uncategorized

Beth The Sheathmaker

In every end of a wrath
Lives a woman named Beth
One night she carved a sheath
From skins and strings of death

The killers wait outside her garden
With a rusted sword held by a maiden

“Full moon is upon us,”
Said the maiden in a lamenting song
“Lateness is disastrous
For the sword needs to belong. “

‘Tis the sword of jade
Rusted with stains of blood
A natural poisoned blade
And human flesh, its food

And from its recent victims
The heathens the people claims
A new cover must be woven
Before the sword get awaken

But see, dear Beth is too old
For milleniums her story has been told
It’s even hard for her to fold
A sheath to shield she cannot mold

Full moon started to bleed
The sword begins to feed
On those who says they need
To kill because of greed

Beth survives the dreadful mess
She has made an awful dress
The remnants that she caress
Have now become her fortress


Cinta, English, podcast, Puisi

Minds

Her
Did you know?
That after you’re gone, I tried to drink myself to death?

Him
Did you know?
That after you’re gone, I tried to eat myself to death?

Her
I have to cut you out or else I keep cutting myself. Literally.

Him
I tried to find you online only to find you were with somebody else, just days after you left me. What’s chasing you?

Her
I fucked a lot men just numb the pain you’ve caused me. But nobody like you. And I think that’s what I wanted; to fuck anybody but you.

Him
Still I want to talk to you. I want to talk to you about the stars. The science of premonitions. I want to talk about the midnight park we spent our nights talking. I want to hear your voice singing your songs with your guitar. My superstar.

Her
There’s nothing to talk about.

Him
So many things to talk about. So many things to say to you.

Her
I’ve got nothing to say. I don’t want to hear anything from you. Jerk off!

Him
I do. It’s hell that everyone is like you.

Her
Nobody’s like you and

Him
You’re everywhere and

Her and Him
I miss you.

English, Memoir, Racauan

Dysphoria #1: Self-made Hell

This is a work fiction. All resemblance with the reality is on purpose. Explicit content.

It is obvious that my loneliness is the main cause of all these fuss, unfaithfulness, the distorted feeling of entitlement. It is my most deceptive defensive mechanism–that the truth, in itself, is self destructing. I am alienating people in order to alienate myself from the hell that they construct.

Creating my own hell, is better than living somebody else’s heaven.

Thus, I hurt myself again, just to find a way to make me forget that I am lonely. I hurt myself with bulimia, with days of sleep, with obsessive scratching, cutting, and obsessive exercise when the manic came, sleepless nights, and after that I still want to punch any guy, or fuck any girl that I think deserve my fist or my dick. I am all open to fight or fuck because I’m sick of flight.

And I’d desperately love anybody who wants to love me. And I’d burn myself, sacrifice myself, ready to be crucify like Jesus H. Christ, and I’d beg people not to leave me until they’d got annoyed and see me as a freak and they need to leave me to stay sane because I’d drive them crazy, so I’d drive my car. I’d drive and drink myself hope to die on the road, hopefully with other assholes that swarming the highways of this city.

And all of it would be my fault. Nobody can blame or even care about my disorder, my upbringing, the system that I am in. I and only I, will be held responsible for all this mess that’s happening with my life and other people that I dragged.

The fucking shrink might say that this thought is cognitive distortion, self entitlement, but fuck you, the court, the people’s court cannot hold my disorder, my upbringing responsible for my actions. They cannot put those abstract nouns in jail, they could not rehabilitate my illness. It is I and only I, will be held responsible for my actions.

And what else should I do but to embrace what the universe has given me? I have eliminate the choice to take my own life because of the meds or because I’m a fucking coward. Anyway, I have no choice but struggle against a sea of trouble and by opposing hope to end them. Even though I know, that I will lose and drown and will face inevitable slow death. But at least I did fight back and refuse to flight.

At least I did good, at being brave. To open my eyes every day, and trying hard to get out of bed and go out to the world. To fight or to fuck. And if I have to lose love again, I think it’s just because I don’t deserve love. I am condemn to beg. For mercy, for love, for attention, only to toss it all out, when I feel lonely.

Because of this distorted feelings and thought, that I’d rather be alone, than be lonely. And the only way to be out of the misery of loneliness, is to break all ties and be perfectly alone to face the misery of the ubermench, the homo deus. Until there is no happines or misery any more, until there is no value in the narrative of my life.

It is when I became forgetful, mad, or die.

Sickness unto death.

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