A Dreamer’s Dream for A Dream

I’m a dreamer. Not the kind where I have a dream to build a house where I can put all my family in one place—so that I don’t have to take a flight just to spend a few days with them. I’m a dreamer in the sense that when I go to sleep, my mind will start presenting bits and pieces of my life into a sequence and roll them with some editing and choices of genre. That kind of dream.

I had all kinds of dreams; One night, I was dreaming about a cooking school that got bombed (I can’t really tell this one now because of The Last Harvest). I wrote it down in my dream journal. A few months later, I wrote an opening scene for that dream in a first person POV. I wrote it down with a mechanical pencil I just bought, in a notebook I felt like I don’t really like. So once I finished writing–probably got distracted and forgot what I was doing–and put the book down, I forgot about it until last year. That’s when I realize that this could be something, and that the story is too big to be abandoned and not being loud about.

Now I’m dreaming of making this dream into a book. I got a hundred and fifty pages in the draft now. And I’m so proud of it. But that is not the reason why I write this piece. I want to tell a story, about a story, that teaches me about some lesson.

Lesson Number 1

So the world has been crazy since the beginning of 2026 if not since the last decades. I think we as human beings, collectively are experiencing–what I would call–an unfriendly weather inside our head. Well, let me just speak for myself. I’ll rephrase that: I have been experiencing dark clouds inside my head for quite a while. And for some reason, I tend to forget that my soul needs something to channel the anger, the grief and everything else into. Which in my case, writing.

When I started working on The Last Harvest, the cloud in my head started getting thinner and a little bit of light started creeping in. It's not so dark nowadays. It’s not like the storm is brewing inside it anymore. So writing, as I knew before, and had to relearn the hard way, is the simple and cheap cure. It’s a tool. To get through commuting without breaking any windows. To get through the day without screaming good profanities to strangers on the side walk. To get through the week without feeling the pull to find the lake where all the poets went to die.

The lesson mostly is for me though. Maybe it can work for someone else too. If writing is not your cup of tea, just believe me when I say that it works all the same with whatever your tea is. Simply put, art is the way.

Lesson Number 2

I find myself rushing in everything that I do. I rush myself leaving the bed when I wake up. I rush myself to make coffee in the morning to jump start the routines. I rush producing my words when I talk. Sometimes it makes me sound blubbering. I rush at everything I know that it’s not healthy. My nerves must’ve been fried by now. I don’t know.

But this rushing tendency is not only for physical activities or routines. I tend to rush my stories as well. Like when I start something, I find that I can’t wait for the end product. It makes me want to do things quickly, so I abandoned the development. Most of the time. This is one of the reasons why I can never finish a whole story without getting distracted on doing another piece. I just can’t wait.

The Last Harvest is different. Maybe because I love the character so much I don’t want to ruin their arc. Maybe the story is so dear to my heart I want it to be good so that I start taking my time. I enjoy the process more. I take my reading sessions about corn as the process of writing. When I watch the storm from my apartment window and internalize the spit of rain touching the glass, I take it as a writing process too. When I mindfully sit and listen to my loved ones talking, I call it a writing process too.

The Last Harvest, my third baby, taught me something important. That writing is not all about sitting and running my fingers over the keyboard to produce ten thousands of words into pages. Writing is me. When I wake up every morning and think about Suri and her sketches, it’s writing. When I put my head on the pillow and try to sleep and the voice of Alex plays in my head, it’s writing too. Taking notes of my friend Daniel’s insights and jokes is also part of the process.

Patience, taking time, and enjoying the process, is what I believe will make The Last Harvest Better than anything I’ve ever written.

Lesson Number 3

In between my work days and the weekend, last week, I made time to listen to a podcast of a friend. A podcast where he narrates my poems and prose. It has been years since the last time I heard or read the piece. So when I heard Reza Romano pronounce every word from my poem with a little bit of music in the background, I found myself crying. I thought to myself “who wrote that?” Because it sounds so beautiful and honest. And then I remember how I felt when I wrote the words, I wasn’t proud of what I made. I thought it was a mediocre line of yearning. But after spending years away from it, I can see it from afar and remove the criticism in my head when I listen to it, from someone else’s mouth.

The lesson was, we, I, can be the worst critics of our own creation. We think we can judge and look for the worst part of something, because we think we’re not hurting ourselves in the process. We’re not being fair to ourselves about our creation. Most of the time. At least in my case.

With The Last Harvest, I try to just pour myself into the pages. I just write everything as honestly as I can and not reread everything before I put myself away for sometime. The Last Harvest, as important as it is to me, taught me that to give birth to a good piece of art, I need to separate the editor and the writer in my head. They each can have their own time to be activated.

I wrote this for me. For someone like me, who happens to find this page in the middle of a struggle making their dream come true. For someone looking for a way to bring their imagination bleeding their way into our world. So that we remember, it’s not just about the end product, it’s about the process and what it taught you. Us.

The Songs That Raised Me Still Know How to Comfort Me

Have you ever felt a choke in your throat that can only be relieved by warm drops falling from the corner of your eyes? Or do you ever experience the big lump burning inside your chest but instead of hurting, it makes your whole body feel like in that strange, graceful trance nostalgia brings?

When I decided to sit down and write this, I had this overwhelmingly good–nostalgic–warm feeling that resulted in tears shed. Not once, not twice.

Before bed, I was humming a tune and started singing, “Susan… Susan… Besok gede mau jadi apa…” and had this serious will to find the whole discography of Kak Ria Enes and Susan on music streaming platforms. I was so absurdly happy when I found Kak Ria Enes and Susan on Apple music. So then I decided to listen to my favorite song, Susan Masuk Sekolah before really trying to sleep.

Let me take you back to 12 hours before this morning (when I wrote this).

I didn’t expect that the first tune of that song would make me cry. The kind of cry that you don’t understand why. The kind of cry that makes your heart filled with this happiness but it feels far away. The kind that makes you feel full, but empty. The kind that makes you long for something, but you just couldn’t point out what specific thing is that longing for.

And then I was like, okay, maybe I’m in quite a hormonal imbalance and decided to listen to Kak Ria and Susan when I’m in a good state. I betrayed that commitment because on my way to work this morning, I listened to them. The whole Volume 3 and Susan Masuk Sekolah album. I knew this would put a lump in my throat and choke me with these feelings that I think I’m familiar with but not sure how to handle without crying like a baby.

I was probably around 2-3 years old when I first listened to Kak Ria Enes and Susan. I kept getting back to the old blue cassette when I was 5 to 7 years old. I remember how me and my older brother would sit around our old fading black Polytron tape player to listen to it and dance to Si Monod song.

But returning to it at 32, on a bus to work, felt different. And I’m not sure if this will work the same way with other 90s kids, but for me, my Susan moment was so therapeutic in the most nostalgic way. It lights up my drained exhausted soul. It sparks my sleeping hope back to life. It gives me this euphoric feeling because I smiled from ear to ear from the lyrics and Susan’s behavior. It makes me feel calm through Kak Ria’s soothing voice.

And then when I stopped, it brings me to this conclusion:

Listening to your childhood songs as an adult is another way to get in touch with your inner child. And when you can make a good reflection while in that state, you heal another part of that scared little kid inside of you. In my case, I get to see something in life, from the perspective of a brave–full of energy–little me. At least for the whole duration of Punya Cita-cita song.

Now I’m about to turn 33 in a week. And I think I will get back to Kak Ria and Susan once in a while for every time I feel like the world has given me too much stuff to think about. Because it will take me back to that time; the time when I don’t really understand how the world works that it makes everything possible in my mind and because of that I get to dream of every little dream I might have without the fear of losing it in a blink of an eye.

Oh to be a kid and not knowing. To be a kid, and believe that the world is gonna treat you right. To be a kid, and think you’re going to make it when you’re old enough. To be a kid, inside a 33 years old body and still have that faith–that everything is going to work out in my favor.

So What’s Your Tragedy?

Tragedy. When we heard this word, the first image that came to mind probably was a scene of a shipwreck in the middle of a vast ocean swallowing a hundred souls alive. Or just a vivid memory of a massive crack on the town’s road after a deadly earthquake. Some might envision a friend’s grave after a car accident. The list could go on and on to describe what a tragedy could mean to some of us.

The meaning of tragedy is subjective and can vary greatly depending on individual experiences, cultural backgrounds, and philosophical beliefs.

Some of us. Well the rest could probably think of something abstract when we hear the word tragedy. One could think of what a tragedy it was that her dad was born in a poor family that he couldn’t get enough education to take him to be a teacher and ended up being a cop instead, because that was what he could afford at that time while everyone knows that being a teacher seems like his truest calling. Another could have thought about the joyful sound of family laughter at the dinner table when they hear that word but instead are face to face with the senseless empty room full of cold air and stillness because that’s what distance does. Probably when a dog was taught about the word tragedy and heard it for the second time, it probably would imagine chasing a moving tail in the corner of the couch that turned out to be its own. Or for instance, we could think about how messed up it is when the roles of power in some organization, a country even, is filled with people who—if not capable—are just not suitable for the responsibility, the impact could be catastrophic and can cause widespread suffering. And by suffer I mean stress inducing, rage boiling, traumatizing kind of suffering. Tragedy for some is when you did all the work but it’s your bosses taking all the credit with all that annual bonus. What a tragic tragedy.

So if what we are imagining and thinking of when hearing it are variously different, what is the true meaning of a tragedy then?

Is it when something is supposed to happen but it doesn’t? Is it when what you want is not what you get? Is it when something broke you to the very core of your being that even the beauty of a bedazzled skyscraper couldn’t entertain you anymore? Or is it when you have something so unimaginably dreamy you wish to share it to the whole world but couldn’t because then it would ruin it? Is it something that you know is so true and to share it can change how the system works but then the external factors get in the way that you might never get the chance to tell the tale?

Oh, to find the definition of tragedy is easy these days. In ancient Greece, tragedy was a ritual performance of the downfall of a great man—usually a king or nobleman— brought low because of some sort of fault. In Psychology, tragedy is defined as an event or sequence of events that can occur singly or collectively resulting in pain and suffering that impact us on so many levels (emotional, social, physical, coping, creative and spiritual). In the writing world, tragedy is defined as a genre that focuses around a noble character who struggles against strong external challenges.

But, oh, how I forget what I really want to tell you about tragedy in the first place as I start writing about all the things swirling in my brain when I start typing the word and got distracted that I write about all sorts of things before I get to this part where I suppose to tell you what I really want say.

Well, to really define tragedy and understand its meaning is to have multiple layers of understanding and acceptance. Some would say one can only understand tragedy from experience. But I wouldn’t wish any of such to occur in anyone’s life. It’s just when I happen to have some experience with tragedy I just know now that it helped me to be the I am today. In my case and I believe a lot of us out here believe the same; that tragedy is this coarse sandpaper that shapes our edges, tuning it into the fine angle for the perfect curve, the straight line, the pretty outline and perfect footing.

Oh, I really can’t seem to remember what I want to say in the first place talking all about tragedy and humbly brag that I’ve earned my wisdom to accept the fact that life is a mix of bliss and tragedy, a perfect combination of ups and down, an artistic scramble of good and bad, a collaboration of strength and weakness. But I do remember one part of it. I remember to put this sentence at the end of this short piece; when you look at it from one side, sure things can seem ugly sometimes, but have you tried another angle? You’re welcome!

The Rage Against Nice: Why It's Time to Get Real About Our Feelings

I have been in constant exhaustion and I believe that a lot of us are feeling just as worn out as 7 hours of sleep is not enough to recharge the knackered body and a quick trip to our favorite destination can't comfort the drained soul anymore. Oh, and talk about how time just never felt so friendly because no matter how much we try and how rushing we are on floating through it, it always feels like there is so much to do on so little time spared. Some people would literally sacrifice their sleep to have a little more time with their loved ones. In my case, I keep daydreaming of how nice it would be if we can choose just 1 day of the week to sleep inside some kind of futuristic pod where we only have to have 2-3 hours of sleep instead of 7 hours each day.

There are 7 days on each week and all four weeks multiplied by the number of months every year. I don't care how many days there are every year, all I know is in one of those 7 days a week, we all have had the bad ones haven't we? Between some of those bad ones, of course there are the worst and the range of how we feel on each of them varies from desperately sad to horrendously mad.

And to add salt to that custom wound, we always betray ourselves by feeling a certain way about some feelings.

Like we would feel guilty if we feel trapped in the life we live in as if we're not grateful for all the blessings. Or we always blame ourselves for not doing anything on some days off just because we want to wind down from everything. We would hate it or be overly self-critical just because we have so much hate and rage on some bad days. The ugly part of it, we would always feel bad whenever we're mad about something that—let's say—is bad.

Let's see how it rolls in my everyday life. But first…

A Confession

I've been trying to write more and realizing that it will be just as hard if I really give myself some kind of censorship just because I keep trying to be nice that l have to cut some truth from my writing, which impossible to do because my words are always about the truth, because writing for me is about being honest to myself.

Alright, okay. I was not just trying to be nice (but I do know that I'm a nice one) but also because I feel bad if I write something about particular things. I would always think about people who would get hurt or offended just because what I have to say is probably different from popular opinion, or I would be spiraling about how my audience would perceive me because of what I feel about specific things. All that is what I believe is one of some reasons of why lately | write less.

So here it is, one of those colorful honesty that I've been trying to repress because I keep wanting to sound like a nice person and certainly don't want to hurt some feelings.

But whatever.

Some Bad Days Are The Worst

Alright, so anybody out here feeling like an explosive? Or just a meaty sack carrying tons of gunpowder around inside them that a single tiny trigger could really blow you up maybe?

Because I do and lately it's getting intense, especially on some of the bad days. But what do my bad days look like?

Let's say it varies and one of them is when rage fills my body and my blood is boiling that I believe my skin turns red during the time. I breathe hard, like the exhales and the inhales were intentionally audible with the heavy sigh and I'd groan angrily because sometimes it helps me get calmer.

But, ugh, how do I put this nicely, but some people just make me want to throw a tantrum. I did tell a friend once that some people really bring out the worst in each other.

And I guess, some of those applied to me. Or just occasionally triggers some unhealed part of me because they too, unhealed and easily triggered. Like a sack of explosives.

The thing is, I keep telling myself that I want to practice breathing exercises instead of getting drowned in the spiraling thoughts, getting super angry and talking shit and thinking the worst about other people. But most of the time I just can't help but hate meeting people. I hate that their ugly behavior of talking about other people keeps annoying me every time. I hate that being surrounded by people, especially a pool of strangers or a chaotic crowd makes me panic and stressed out. I hate that their laughter and the sound they make while they're eating really makes me want to scream. I told everybody that I love the sound of keyboards clicking but there are places where the sound of somebody typing makes my head so full of anger. And I hate that with all the identity we bring with our existence, some people just can't shake the habitual hatred they mindlessly keep showing.

And also, the one trait that I really hate from humans, is that they can easily let the purest intentions get wrapped and overlooked just to have another promising return that being an opportunist gave. And I just can't stop connecting all the strings and writing all sorts of scenarios in my head that makes me just want to go home and hide under the sheets and forget that I have to attend my job 5 days a week, 9 hours everyday.

Oh, trust me I am not a saint but believe me I have been roaming the earth long enough to know that being called a loner is way better than having to deal with all that. I'm exhausted and keep dreaming about a life in the woods with all the silence but the rustling sound of the trees when they get kissed by the wind.

Now This Is Where It Gets Messy

I'm exhausted. There, I said it again. If all of that thing is what we have to deal with, who doesn't? And if exhaustion is the word I've written 5 times now in this one piece alone, I think I need to understand something about it. So here's my 2 cents.

As if having to do all the work, all the routines, all the commutes, all the chores, all the physical activity is not enough to spend our energy with, we tend to add some more work load to ourselves by being our first critics. I mean look at how I described my feelings when some people were typing too loud and it annoyed me. I said I hate feeling that way about it. I used the words "I hate" generously and it naturally came out of my mind right through my fingers. I genuinely hated the way I felt during those angry days. And that's where it's wrong.

Our whole life we've been told that anger is a bad feeling.

We've been told to control our feelings that at some point we have to shove it all down. We've also been told that we're not allowed to hate, to be mad, to be sad, to feel disappointed, and any kind of feelings that are considered "a bad one". It's no one's fault now that it took hours of therapy for us to understand that no feeling is a bad feeling. It's no one's fault that after all this time, after all the effort to heal, to unpack and to restore ourselves, we still find it hard to just feel the feeling instead of blaming ourselves for feeling it.

Now isn't it answering enough to my exhaustion problem that one of the big reasons is this: I let the feelings fold, shoved, stuffed myself and when it feels too much to carry, I blame myself for feeling that way.

Now what?

It is hard to be nice and I hate it when people say being nice is easy. I mean, not saying cruel things to other people when they have nothing to do with you is easy, but to keep on being nice when all they do is make unnecessary exaggerated volumes of laughter in the public space? It's taking all the energy from your body.

And to refrain yourself from yelling at the people who keep interrupting your conversation with a friend just because they want to be part of the talk is what I believe they call energy draining. And so be it.

It's okay to feel angry when those people make you feel uncomfortable at work because of their loud laughter.

It's okay if you hate your neighbor for building a literal cow barn next to your back porch and send the smell to your house all day long. It's okay to pull ourselves away from an interaction because we just can't stand the dominant talker with main character syndrome anymore.

It's okay to feel disgusted by a stupid argument someone's pushing on you.

Be angry, be mad, be disgusted, feel the hate. Feel all that feeling and never question why you feel it. My therapist said that it's not about feeling better, it's about getting better at feeling.

Better Than Yesterday: A Way Back To Words

I almost believe that the last time I wrote something and actually put it here was last year. It was, almost a year since I last wrote about something that I read. And a lot has happened for the whole months after that that I forgot that writing is something that I truly need to cope with everything. I mean I put out a “not-so-small” amount of money to pay for this domain, and letting it gather virtual dust feels like a betrayal.

So I guess this post is some kind of emotional check-ins with my loyal audience. Or a really special fan service for you (you know who you are) who keep telling me that they miss reading my words (Oh how I love you).

Alright, first thing first, I have to admit that making myself sit and just write for an hour and really try to put it out is kind of harder lately with all the terrifying things happening around the world, my shift hours, chores, LIFE and its relentless demands, and everything in between. But here we are today, you have me finally able to tame my inner procrastinator and put her to sit and play around with the keyboard.

The Big Loss

Earlier this year I lost my grandmother. It’s the GRANDMOTHER, the one that I keep writing about and bragging about. The one grandmother that I got the chance to show my writings about her, the one that I get to show my symbolic token of love for, and the grandmother I get to meet for the last time a few weeks before her passing. Oh the feeling of urgency I felt that time to visit my hometown is unexplainable and knowing what it truly means after she’s gone, it still gives a little stitches to my broken heart and a gaping wound in my soul.

And thinking about her and the whole memories of my grandmother with all her beautiful traits, it will always take small pieces of me away even though it feels like she’s still here with us and realizing she’s not, it kills me. Every damn time. And it’s not a surprise that writing about that heals me. I kept writing about her almost every day for the whole month in my journal. Until I don’t shed the painful tears anymore whenever I talk about her, or when I think about my graduation gown and her hand smoothing the wrinkles with a silent “I’m proud of you”. Even though it is still painful and feels like the skin of my heart is being ripped off whenever I think about my grandmother and my hometown and knowing that she’s not there anymore.

Is One Day Better Than The Other?

Now if you’re asking how I am feeling, the answer would be better than yesterday. The only answer I can come up with, and the only answer I can feel the most honest with. And also, with this answer, I’m solidifying my “easier days coming” hope. I don’t know about you but hanging on to one thin thread “one day at a time” mantra is not really working for me, I need to add one more thing in there, for it to get better everyday. Hence, better than yesterday is IT for me.

Oh, life and death and the vast spectrum in between. Farewells, warm embraces, the silent sting of loss, the euphoria of love, the exhilarating pursuit of passion, the soul-crushing weight of obligation, forgotten desires and fading dreams, the joy of fulfilled ambitions and nurtured talents, the black and white, the ups and downs, it's all a swirling vortex within us. How much can we truly handle? Is "one day at a time" a coping mechanism or a way to simply numb ourselves to survive? How much strength do we need to face it all without breaking?

For me? All I need is a moment to breathe and an hour or two to write it all out.

Unveiled Reflections

She is a flower blooming in the dark,

Yet her essence still radiates.

She is a treasure in a box,

Locked away and guarded by a dragon.

She is a submarine,

Gliding through the water,

Silently surfacing for air only at night.

She is a spy in enemy territory,

Always on ward,

Never letting down her guard.

She is a character in a noir novel,

Building a secret garden,

Hidden away from the prying eyes of the world.

She is on a tiny island in the middle of a vast ocean,

All she can see are waves crashing on the shore,

But never the horizon.

She is a pearl inside an oyster's shell,

So alluring but ultimately unattainable.

She is a candle in the secluded greenhouse,

Her secret flickering in the shadows.

She is a glowing ember under a pile of ashes,

Her soul smolders just below the surface,

Waiting to burst into flame.

But she accept her fate like a hot coal

And it burned through her soul

As the realization dawned on her

Her shoulder relaxed

Like hot iron in the water

It’s her kiss to the forehead

Her warm blanket in the cold winter night

It’s her marking

A gift to oneself

As the tension that had been building

In her chest since forever melts away.