#FictionFriday

#FictionFriday: Broken people and their lack of sleep.

The world is full of broken people. Take me, for example. I can’t remember when I last enjoyed my sleep. Wait, I think I can. Wait, on second thought I don’t remember. My memories are broken. Things I’ve remembered have been altered one too many times, from lies I told myself or from things I refuse to comprehend. Either way, we are all broken. Damaged. Beyond the point of repair.

It’s been days since I’ve enjoyed my sleep. Sleep is for the weak, I said. Sleep is a privilege I do not have. The alarm was blasting, actually I’m not sure, all sounds seem to magnify when you close your eyes. It’s the thing that people said, when one sense is off, the other magnifies its ability. I fumbled around with my left hand, trying to locate where my phone was, intent on turning off the alarm and to see how long had passed since I last snooze the alarm.

Fifteen minutes have passed. Seemed like an hour. I weight my option, do I just skip work altogether knowing that I wouldn’t have anything better to do anyway, or try as I might so as not to be late at work, pretend that life has not been altered and moved from its axis? Best to just get a shower first. Thinking with a clean hair and body, not to mention minty fresh breath, seems like a condition I would rather be in than bleary eyed with horrible bed hair, that I am right now.

I stood in front of the mirror, trying to convince myself I look clean enough for today. But, who am I kidding? My hair might be wet, my face may looked fresh, but that dead look in my eyes screams, “I NEED MORE SLEEP!” I shrugged to no one in particular, except at my own reflection. I didn’t think much about what I’m doing, it was until I finished dressing myself up that I realised that it seems to be that I am going to work today. Oh, well, sleep is for the weak anyway, or so I seem to think.


The world is full of people haunted by their past, present, and future. What am I haunted with? Truth. I am haunted by the truth lurking behind my youthful mistakes. Youth feels like eons ago, but in all honesty it was merely five months ago. The truth is that obnoxious kid on a Halloween that constantly knocks on your door screaming, “trick or treat,” even though you’ve clearly screamed back, “go away!”

I tossed and turned in my sleep, or lack thereof. I closed and I opened my eyes, sighing at my lack of sleep. I stumbled in the dark for a cup of tea, hoping it’ll calm whatever raging storm inside me, and leave my body to sleep. I go in and out of white noise playlist, thinking it’ll bring me sleep, just like what they said on those health magazines. I chastised myself for my lack of self control as I fumbled for my phones and go through the repetitive routine of reading whatever it was on the internet. It’s easier to think that someone else half across the world is having a much more shitty day than you are.

I tried to feel sorry, but honestly, who cares about other people? I certainly don’t. I just want to go to sleep. But, sleep won’t come. And so, I repeat the spell and try to convince myself that sleep is only for the weak.


The world is full with the likes of you and me. Those who wander day in and day out, thinking of ways to survive another day without an ounce of sleep in them. You would think that after 35 years lurking about I would have figured out at what point does my life went wrong and figured out the best way to fix it, but of course who has the time to dissect each and every youthful mistakes one has commit in their lifetime? I certainly don’t.

The tick tock of the clock is echoing through the hollow walls of my home. My home? My house? What’s the difference? I’ll be damned if I know. I think I ought to sleep now, but as per usual my eyes refuse to close, my mind refuse to stop producing chain of thoughts, and this is quite new but now I feel like my back is protesting against this old creaking bed. Hmm, maybe I should get a new bed? Oh, well there goes another thought to occupy my mind.


Jakarta, 2 June 2017

Rambling about books

Book review: Modern Romance, by Azis Ansari & Eric Klinenberg

Do you know why I like Azis Ansari? Go and watch his stand-up shows, and/or watch the pilot episode for Master of None. I don’t think I need to elaborate on how interesting it is to listen to Azis Ansari. Having said that, I am beyond excited when I saw this book whilst I was browsing a bookstore last year. The theme of the topic reminds me of an episode where Azis was a guest on The Conan Show and he was talking about online dating and how he’s not into that. It was funny, and imagine having to read a whole entire book on his thoughts about romance; modern romance to be precise. Will Azis be as funny as he was in The Conan Show, as sarcastic as during his stand-up shows, as witty as his character in Master of None?

Continue reading “Book review: Modern Romance, by Azis Ansari & Eric Klinenberg”

Rambling about books

Book review: The Sudden Appearance of Hope, by Claire North

My name is Hope Arden, and you won’t know who I am. But we’ve met before-a thousand times.
It started when I was sixteen years old.
A father forgetting to drive me to school. A mother setting the table for three, not four. A friend who looks at me and sees a stranger.
No matter what I do, the words I say, the crimes I commit, you will never remember who I am.
That makes my life difficult. It also makes me dangerous. Goodreads

Continue reading “Book review: The Sudden Appearance of Hope, by Claire North”

things you may not want to know but i'm telling you anyway

Measuring the immeasurable

 

How do you know that someone cares for you?

That someone loves you to the moon and back, or so the saying goes?

That someone would catch a grenade for you? Or maybe only Bruno would do that for you?

Do you have some sort of note where you can measure in numbers to tell you that this particular person cares for you, and the other person doesn’t because their number just is not enough?

Do you have some sort of guidelines with clear cut definition on what is it that someone must do for them to be understood as caring and loving towards you? Maybe you do. Maybe you don’t.

But, can love and caring be measured? I don’t know.

I have some sort of definition in my head on which I refer to when I think of the people I know. There are those that I think caring and loving, and then there are those that I would label “proceed with caution” whenever I met them.

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Impromptu writing

Temp.

Everything is temporary. My health, my joy, my sorrow, my money, and my life. Nothing ever lasts forever. But it doesn’t make it any easier, does it?

If anything, it makes it harder to go by.

Knowing that my sorrow is temporary, I focus too much on when it will all blow over, forgetting the important lessons offered by my sorrow.

Knowing that my health is temporary, I worry too much on every step I take that I forgot to enjoy what I have. Then I chastise myself, only to take my health for granted, for what good is a good health if you can’t make the best of it.

Knowing my joy is temporary, I am much too preoccupied at being angry at why I can’t always be happy.

Knowing that the money I owned is temporary, I scrutinized all my spending only to be tired of it all and just spend it so long as I have the means to do so.

Knowing my life is temporary, I pretend like I don’t care but the thought plague my mind ever since.

So, nothing is really forever?

Fear not, for the cycle of stupidity is forever. One man down, another is ready to continue the cycle of stupidity until the world comes to its end.

Maybe.

Who knows?

I sure don’t.


A/N. Impromptu writing is written without a plan at hand by continuously typing the things that crosses one’s mind. It was not meant to be understood, it is a practice for the mind when everything seems so clustered that one cannot control one’s own train of thoughts.

This one is written with Basic Tape’s No Matter playing in the background.

Impromptu writing

Selfish through and through.

He said I’m selfish,

and I would smirk.

She said I’m selfish,

and that’s because I was never her priority to begin with.

She said I’m selfish,

and I really don’t care.

He said they are all selfish,

and that’s because he’s just always angry.

I think I am selfish,

but not because he said I was selfish.

I believe I am selfish,

but not because she told me so.

I am sure I am selfish,

but not because she said I hurt her.

I am selfish,

because he was right.

We are all selfish.

You do what makes you feel good,

because you think you’re so powerful.

You do what makes you feel happy,

because you think you always know what’s right.

You do what makes your free,

because you think you deserve freedom after years of oppression.

You do what makes you feel independent,

because you think that cutting ties with them was the way to go.

I did selfish acts,

because I am selfish through and through.

And, see, who is the last man standing,

if it is not the one who is selfish through and through.

Jakarta, 9 May 2017


A/N. Impromptu writing is written without a plan at hand by continuously typing the things that crosses one’s mind. It was not meant to be understood, it is a practice for the mind when everything seems so clustered that one cannot control one’s own train of thoughts.

This one is written with Dan Owen’s Fall Like a Feather playing in the background.

Rambling about books

Book review: The Last American Vampire, by Seth Grahame-Smith

In Reconstruction-era America, vampire Henry Sturges is searching for renewed purpose in the wake of his friend Abraham Lincoln’s shocking death. It will be an expansive journey that will first send him to England for an unexpected encounter with Jack the Ripper, then to New York City for the birth of a new American century, the dawn of the electric era of Tesla and Edison, and the blazing disaster of the 1937 Hindenburg crash. Along the way, Henry goes on the road in a Kerouac-influenced trip as Seth Grahame-Smith ingeniously weaves vampire history through Russia’s October Revolution, the First and Second World Wars, and the JFK assassination. Goodreads.

Continue reading “Book review: The Last American Vampire, by Seth Grahame-Smith”