I would like to write about how the cold, crisp, grey Tangerang morning makes me feel safe. In all its mists and haze, the city seems to be more forgiving of my scattered pieces and unruly thoughts.

 

In the soft wind that bustling intensely through the leaves, the array of contradictions that made up most of who I am feels understood and not alone. With the birds chirping in the lacklustre sunlight, it is as if the universe nudges me to carry on with living even when the tell-tale signs are telling me to un-live the day, the week, the hours that feel like years.

 

Where time stands still is where I feel most alive even though that’s the furthest thing from all I wanted to be.

Terakhir gue pernah post beberapa bulan lalu, gue mau banget tahun ini naik jabatan. Awalnya expect di senior aja, tapi ternyata allah kasih opportunity lebih baik gue naik dengan jabatan manager.

Wow gak tuh, tapi.. disatu sisi ngerasa pressure nya jadi gede bgt, bener - bener ngerasa dua kali lipat dari sebelumnya. 

Not trying to brag but I used to be a top performer at my previous company. 

Gue gk suka menunda pekerjaan gue, dan gue jga selalu fokus sama target, but this time jadi lebih gk percaya diri. Mungkin karena denger berita banyak banget orang - orang yg di lay off dan gue pun ada possibility tersebut, apalagi Im working di startup company. dan lagi, gue pun masih dalam proses probation.

Kebayang gk sih sestress apa gue skrg, ini udh mulai muncul jerawat di muka dan badan jga udh mulai gatel gatel. Mungkin pertanda stress juga.

I just want to pray to god that he will bless me and make ease my way. 

Only to god I hope. 

Sekarang sih Im trying to do my job as best as I can, meskipun gue akuin this time is quite harder than before plus several factor from external pressure. Duh rasanya kepala mau pecah hahaha. 

Help god~

I always loved writing, until I don’t. The words no longer make sense, and the meanings they hold are flat and dead to me. I don’t know what changed, but I guess it is about time, for nothing last forever and neither is my ability to put my thoughts into order, apparently.

As my fingers jump around these colourful pads, I can’t help but notice the grammar mistakes I’ve made and the inappropriately placed dictions. Writing – or typing – and putting my musing into memos should, used to pause my wars, putting the troopers into sleep. Not anymore.

Writing has become the enemy; I see words and I hear mocking. Alliteration is abominable to said writing. Using simile and metaphors sound platitudinous, and nothing is good enough.

And so I’m done. I’m sorry if my writing’s too authoritative, too stiff, too vague. I’m sorry that my writing is most probably full of grammatical errors, not concrete enough, not specific enough. Most of all, I’m sorry that in a very near future I might no longer feel sorry anymore. For these rules that bound me, they’ll no longer have me as a hostage. Soon, I’ll be able to hopefully pour these thoughts of mine, filling the space with locutions, where they belong. Where they can no longer haunt me at night, where they might shed some light and rise the sun up.