English, Memoir, Puisi, Racauan


I had a dream that everything was okay. And it made me sad that in that dream, I know it was a dream.

English, Memoir, Racauan, Teater

2018: Year of Love and It’s Terror

Those who know me probably know that 2018 might be one of the heaviest year of my life. In January, I lost my father. I gain some old and new friends. Lost them. Gain some love, lost them. Gain some weight and mental illnesses—Oh, shit they won’t go away. Probably my closest friends now.

I honestly lost the will to tell you my stories, for they are dull, cliches and most of you who knows me already know. People have disappointed me and I have disappointed people. I woke up tonight crying for the words I have said repeatedly to them; words like “I love you”, “please understand”, “I’m Sorry”, “Don’t leave”, and “Why?”

And their words are echoing in my mind, “I refuse your love”, “Don’t make your illness as an excuse”, “You’re the one who left”, “Up to you, whatever”, “Don’t need to apologize if you don’t feel guilty about it.”

You know that phrase YOLO, or do things you want to do before you regret it, whatever. Well, I did what I wanted to do and said what I needed to say and I still regret them. It’s like everything is a mistake (that is depression). So here I am wordless and worthless. For the world around me is working against me. For the people I love either left me, or can’t be with one another therefore can’t be with me, or keep making shits that made me have to do shits for them, or keep saying they love me and expect just too goddamn much by expressing their pain and need to be with me, or expect me to be something that I am not. I keep give a fuck where I shouldn’t have and I don’t know why.

I honestly, from the bottom of my heart, HATE this year because it’s full of love. Because from those love rise jealousy, and hatred, and mental illness, and all sort of problems with no end or solution on sight. The things that love precedes this year are existential terrors. Culture and institutions have made loving to be so fucking demanding, by creating this “either-or” principles in people’s mind, and terrorizing us with the fear of loving or losing love. So fucking complicated. I hate this year for taking so much of my mind and soul.

This is the year of desperation.

And the scariest part of this year, is the tiny hope it gave me, lurking behind those depressions and unrequited love. The hope that we all can find a balance to be with one another, and loving each other without all the commotion of heartbroken drama and social contracts that goes with it. The hope that life is worth living, because deep inside, we are all missing each other.

If love is a verb, it is a painful one. Since in that action I have to be still and accept the fact that stillness is what most people I love wanted from me. The stillness corrodes me, for expressing my love will do nothing but harm. Love is a tyrant that binds me out of you all, lock me inside of my mind.

But if that is what it takes to live this year and the next, shall be it. For I love you, and nothing can stop that. I’m gonna die a masochist.

I wish you all a happy new year.

English, Memoir, Racauan, Uncategorized

When I Leave

I know I can be hard. So I thank you for staying. But I understand those who left or if you want to leave, since… I can be hard.

Who would bear the circling uttered words of meaningless anxiety, the reckless raging action, the inconsistency of commitment, the constant change of plans, the tender love turn to harsh possessiveness, the lust for betrayal, and the suicidal threat that endangered everyone around me.

No love in the world could manage to constantly stay to something like that. Not even love for one self. If I could, darling, I’d leave myself for good. But one cannot leave one self. One can just stay and live, or leave and die. And you, all of you who come and go, made me live and suffer. And taste a little bit of happiness. And for that I thank you. For that, I love you.

Some of you who stays, hurt me with your love and your disappointment in me, for I cannot be what you wished me to be. And with that, I hurt you back. I used to be sorry for that, but that guilt made me worse. So I have to say, sorry that I am not sorry. I am not sorry for failing your expectation, I am not sorry for hurting your feelings, for breaking promises, for being a bad son, husband, brother, cousin, nephew, colleague, friend, lover. Since I know for sure, and you know for sure too, that I am not always bad. And these days when I am bad, it is never intentional. You can either understand and cope with me in facing my symptom, or you are free to leave. I will be okay.

I will be okay since you will not be the first ones who leave, and will not be the last. I left some people too for my own sake, and I will not hesitate to leave you,

for my own sake.

So do take a break. Hell, do shut your life from me for good.


You. are. important. to. yourself.

And don’t worry about me. I’ll be okay. I’ll be better off knowing you’re okay without me, than having you around and realizing how much I have been hurting you.

I’ll have my attacks when I don’t know whether you’re okay or not. Sometimes I wonder why’d you leave me and I go berserk. But then I remember again that I also want to leave me. So I laugh, and cried. And I bid you farewell, and wish you a wonderful life without me.

And I hope those who stay can understand that too, when I leave.

Don’t worry, I’m not gonna kill myself again. That ship has sailed. I’m gonna kill somebody else who pissed me off on the road. Haha. I’m kidding.

See ya. Or not.

English, Memoir, Racauan, Uncategorized

Handwriting and Thought-wringing

So I have to get back to a point where it all started, the roots of all my problem: myself, deep inside. I have to re-learn things, this time with more precaution and slower pace. So I will get back to handwriting. Some of the things in my notes people will never see, some I will transcribe here after a deep thought.

Healing is not enough. I have to reconstruct and be honest to myself. I have to accept the fact that people have free will, and so do I. Consent must be respected, discontent discontinued by disregarding regrets.

And so I bid you adieu for this chapter of my life, and welcoming you to a phase of waiting. You will meet me again, as the same person but older and hopefully wiser.

A few projects ahead: I am producing a new horror series for Youtube, composing new songs for my solo (or probably duo) album, and getting back to writing literature.

Some people I know choose not to produce. They are waiting for some sort of muse or something, or a good time that, heck, will never come. I pushed enough to make these people make something out of their miserable life, that I forgot how miserable I am. Fortunately I am blessed with this melancholy and energy to create. So fuck you bystanders, I ain’t gonna wait. You can wait all you fucking want. I’m doing this, secretly, daily, until the day I decided to end my life.

A plan is a plan after all. Without acting, even nothing will refuse to exist.