Accurate

"You know that feeling?
When you're just waiting
Waiting to get home, into your room,
close the door, fall into bed,
and just let everything out that you kept in all day.
That feeling of both relief and desperation.
Nothing is wrong.
But nothing is right either.
And you're tired.
Tired of everything, tired of nothing.
And you just want someone to
be there and tell you it's okay.
But no one's going to be there.
And you know you have to be strong
for yourself, because no one can fix you.
But you're tired of waiting.
Tired of having to be the one to fix yourself and everyone else.
Tired of being strong.
And for once, you just want it to be easy.
To be simple . To be helped. To be saved.
But you know you won't be.
But you're still hoping.
And you're still wishing.
And you're still staying strong and fighting,
with tears in your eyes.
You're fighting."

Highly observants

There’s just something about the way my mother eats her meals. Sometimes I’m just so engrossed and bemused by the way she makes eating more than a necessity; she makes it a passion. Passion, in this case, doesn’t necessarily mean doing it in an obsessive way, just with love. Throughout my whole sixteen years of life, I’ve never seen anyone do quite the same as what my mother does.

Telling others exactly what I mean with this is difficult, let alone trying to write about it. Well here’s me, hoping the power of words will describe my fascination:

Dinners aren’t a usually a big deal in my household – if you want to eat, you may join, if not, feel free to continue on with whatever it is you’re doing. And my mother doesn’t tend to join us a lot; if she did she would come late to the dinner table. She’d take out a plate, place a handful of rice and sit in her designated seat. The rice wasn’t much compared to say, me or my father, but it was enough to fill her up. She then starts with a protein; say chicken or fish, then work her way to getting the vegetables. Here comes the interesting bit: my mother doesn’t care what anyone thinks of what her dish looks like. It may look like the most unappetizing dish in the history of unappetizing dishes but it doesn’t seem to bother her. As long as it tastes good, it pleases her.

My mother loves ‘kecap’. My father detests it. Just the sight of the thick black liquid is enough to make my father squirm a little. In every dish my mother eats, she would ask for kecap. She says, “it makes the dish more alive”. Frankly, I agree with her on that. I have inherited my mother’s love for kecap. Now, a person who likes kecap tends to not like anything of the opposite, like ‘sambal’, and vice versa. Just like my father. My mother’s an exception. She douses on both of these taste enhancers every time. Once everything was on her plate, she starts to dig in. Not in a grubby, stuffing the face, dig in… But in a decadent way. Whatever it is she’s eating, it looks delicious. She makes it look delicious and I believe that’s exactly how one should eat. Perspiration starts to appear on the bridge of her nose the deeper she goes into her dish. But that doesn’t bother her; it didn’t look gross, as one might think. To me, it looks like she’s enjoying herself a lot with something as simple as a dinner. 

Finally, half way through the dish, my mother stands up and walks over to the glass container that’s filled with kerupuk. She grabs a handful not only for herself, but also for both me and my father. It’s the one thing we all like. She puts the kerupuk into her plate and pours some kecap on top of it. The snap of the kecap bottle cap is quickly followed by a sudden simultaneous crunch. 

In a way, I'm sort of envious. I can't deny that I've tried to mimic the way she eats because I've tried countless of times only to be disappointed at the end result. You're probably thinking "eating isn't a piece of artwork - why should you care of how it looks?" and frankly, I don't really know. I guess some things are better left unexplained.

Of course, I haven't told my mother this. I'm afraid if I do, she'll be more conscious about it and maybe even stop and change they way she eats. I could ask her how she manages to do that but maybe some things are better left alone to enjoy rather than imitate. Because really, if I do, I'll be no more than just a copy and who likes those?

Happy birthday mum - here's to the best original of you there ever was!

xo,
S

Metamorphosis

My mother always tells me that I don't have enough friends. Compared to her, who is the biggest social butterfly there is, I am just a caterpillar. Like the caterpillar, I prefer to stay on the ground and make do with just a few essential necessities. Necessities being my closest friends.

I don't know whether it's a preference or I just don't like going through the phase of making new friends (maybe it's both) but I'm someone who would rather have one really good friend instead of a thousand "friends". Maybe I should credit my father who recently admitted to me that ever since I was a pacifier-sucker, he rarely sets play dates for me amongst my fellow toddlers. And he did this for one reason only: my environment is the most influential thing there is.

This is proven by what I've noticed at home. My domestic helper's 2-year-old son, Abi, used to be the sweetest most adorable thing until he befriended my other domestic helper's son. He is about 2 years older, super mischievous and just not nice in general. Gradually, I noticed Abi imitating his new found friend and not the kind of things you'd like to see anyone imitate for that matter. It dawned on me that my dad made the right choice: in sacrifice of me having childhood friends, I became somewhat a "good person". I was never heavily influenced by anything apart from my parents and maybe my sisters. TV and games was never really any trouble to me because I never took it as anything more than just fiction. And fiction should definitely stay fiction.

I make it an effort to cut out the negativity from my life and that usually stems off from the wrong people. I've been called a bitch plentiful of times because of my non-sugar-coating attitude: if I don't like you, I won't talk to you and I won't kiss your ass to create a friendship as real as Paris Hilton's boob job. So, sure. I don't have many friends. And I guess I'm picky in this area of my life. But it's only because I want to surround myself with good nature and maybe learn a thing or two from my environment. Eventually that caterpillar will morph into a butterfly, but a butterfly with stronger, defined wings. 

xo,

S

Out of sight, out of mind

I really need to keep in touch with people.

4 am pondering

A few months ago, two of my friends that have never met before were acquainted. Location: Jakarta Fashion Week. Friend A brought her boyfriend and I brought Friend B. After they have been introduced to one another, Friend A says to me discretely, "Is he your boyfriend?" I laughed like it is the most absurd thing in the world and replied back to her, "No, he's gay."

It wasn't over then. I had to explain the situation to Friend A. There were a lot of 'y'knows' and sentences ending with question marks - like trying to describe to a Ugoslavian how to cook some poached eggs. In the end Friend A understood, but still left the room winking at me as a gesture to make a move on Friend B.

To me, who understands both of their situations, it was frustrating. To Friend A I must've looked like I was making up some massive lie to hide the fact that Friend B is my boyfriend, by using the oh no he's actually gay card. I'm not in 4th grade anymore, I can admit to whoever my boyfriend is. And to Friend B, it's not easy to come out in a country that's so conservative. I thought out of all people, Friend A would've understood better. Friend A is a model. The fashion industry is practically coated with gay men. I guess the problem here is that Friend A understood, but she did not accept.

Recently, a few days back, Friend A and I crossed paths while I was with another group of friends. Including Friend B. I went across the room to converse and she says, "Oh didn't I meet him [Friend B] during Fashion Week?" and I replied with a simple, "Yup." She could've stopped there but she added, "The one that's not normal right?"

What I should've done was paused and questioned what she meant by 'not normal'. Grill her, perhaps, as to what she thinks is 'normal'. But instead, I laughed it off. Maybe it was because of the noise in the room that I couldn't hear exactly what she said but only did I realise after, maybe it was my slow processing of the Indonesian language, maybe maybe maybe.. But really, there's no excuses for what I did.

What is normal? I'm not even going to go into any depth with that to prevent myself writing another Theory of Knowledge Essay. But surely, being gay has nothing to do with being normal. There is no correlation between that, I think. Friend B is capable of things that straight people can do. Why is he not normal? He passed IB with, I must admit, a very good result and he's going off to university doing what he loves.

Now that I think of it, if Friend A thinks like this, how many of her friends thinks the same way? And how many of their friends think the same way? It's a vicious cycle, really. And to think I could've stopped that cycle if only I had just said what I felt. I guess I was too concerned on what she would think of me if I stood up for Friend B.


Forever tolerating and pleasing,
S

"Faith is a house with many rooms."

"But no room for doubt?"
"Oh plenty, on every floor. Doubt is useful, it keeps faith a living thing. After all, you cannot know the strength of your faith until it is tested."

This, I got from watching the movie Life of Pi, based on the book of the same title. The movie, and the book, dealt with sensitive 'issues' that clings on to me. Particularly religion and the element of the unreasonable in it.

From my outburst of curiosity, over our usual normal dinner, I asked my dad: "If you weren't born into a Muslim family, would you have still been a Muslim?" After a long pause he replied with, "That's a good question." He then mentioned how if he were born as, say, a Christian, he would have some temptation to understand the other religion. And he would do the same as a Muslim. He then goes on to say, "We are taught not to keep a closed mind on other religions... But to answer your question, yes, I think I would still have been a Muslim either way." Somehow, a part of my subconscious mind just refuses to believe that at first glance, especially after watching that movie, which then of course led me to blurt out another question.

"Do you ever have any doubt?"

His reply was an immediate and stern "No."

This slightly took me off guard. Maybe it's just me being the naive 17-year old girl that I am, I just found it difficult to comprehend the fact that one could be so sure of something that has so much doubt.

Anyway, the dinner fell silent after that. But towards the end, it was my dad's turn to ask me the questions. "So what is your doubt in Islam?"I should've just lied, I should've just said I didn't have any doubt but in what universe am I able to lie? (Unfortunately, none.) So I said, "Oh you know, I have doubt for it as a whole." Idiot. Of course, my dad wasn't too happy with my answer and he struggled to keep his face from showing any emotion. He then came up with rational reasons as to why there shouldn't be any doubt. "Do you think that trees just appear out of the ground?", "Who do you think created us, human beings?"

Life of Pi taught me that faith can very much be unreasonable and even the most credible thing or someone can be doubted. That nothing in life should ever be an absolute because if that's the case, where's the fun in that? I'm not about to bash my dad's beliefs, I respect him and he is the most credible person I know but I just kind of wish that he understands that he hasn't given me much to think for my own. I dove head first into this pool without learning how to float.

Without doubt, I would have just followed blind faith. I would have just taken religion as it is. Instead, I question it everyday. As of now, my dad thinks I've got a major problem.. For having doubt. Surely I'm not the bad guy here, I can't be blamed for having an overly critical mind.. Can I?


S

Smth a little more personal

You could be so sure about your feelings at one point but strangely enough, it can quickly turn against you.

A year ago I thought I had this unconditional love for someone. Unconditional. That's a strong word. And a strong kind of love. Only now do I realize by giving him that satisfaction, that he can be the only one to break it. And abuse it.

To say that you love someone is always a big statement. Because along the way, things happen. Shit happens. They do things that will break you. Break you to the point that you start to doubt the love you have for them. And the breaking of the trust usually follows straight after.

I'm not saying I'll never give my love away again and I know that not everyone I meet will do the same.  But let's just say I'm not going to open my heart out so easily. I've got walls - great beige ugly walls - around it and all I want is just for someone to tear it down, because I won't. Because then, I'll know he won't take me for granted.

asdfghjkl whatevs. I ask for too much most of the time sometimes.

I realise that this is all a bit lebay, as one one would say in Indonesian, but I had the need to get it out there in the form of this unknown blog. Because... Lebay can be good. It creates good romantic novels, movies (and also the tackiest sinetron but let's just leave that bit out). Ok, irrelevant! Mocks has screwed my mind over, leaving me in an unstable, emotional psyche...

Till my recovery,

S