High

This morning I cried myself hard in sleep for a very sad dream. Waking up to the last vestiges of tears streaming down the corner of my eye, I strangely felt so good, like an ordinary post-feeling after a great deal of sadness I am quite familiar with. I tried to remember what was so sad about the dream I had, but frankly it wasn’t that sad that I couldn’t continue crying. Was not satisfied enough, unknowingly I checked on what was going to be the lesson materials for my morning french lesson I was supposed to attend. Then I went back to sleep considering that it would not be too much loss if I skipped class, whereupon I amazingly had another very sad dream that I cried myself in sleep, again.

I don’t know why I did that or how it possibly happened, seeing how almost perfectly nonchalant I’ve been, though certainly I took joy from it and somehow proud because it is worth a month of mental fuel for my self-control. An emotional release that powerful enough, yet so delicate it won’t leave scar on the threadbare skin at the back of my hand. Such rare occasion, my friend, deserves a toast of celebration.

Lost in Thoughts

Reminiscing a critic a close friend once said to me, freely quoted:

It’s usually hard for me to understand what you’re trying to say in your blog posts, to find the connection of all the sentences in one post. It was like in the middle of your writing, your mind suddenly changed and thus your topic.

And, remorsefully, I need to say that there’s no better fashion of anyone to explain the way my mind works, too.

Coming Up Expectation

Am I not supposed to act mature because I will no longer be teen, and got to use this short remaining time to drain all the useless emotion I shouldn’t feel when I’m 20?

Or am I supposed to act mature because I will no longer be teen, in order to get ready to be left alone with responsibilities for self when I’m 20? While that only if I care that much not to get bad opinion whenever I act arbitrarily, of which that I used to give to people who have trouble with controlling their emotions, behind their curtains of course, that I only shared with myself or the dearest people who brilliant (or pengangguran) enough to read my mind.

I need to call this into question because suddenly I feel like 6 again, with the unusual languishing for this one presence, that I cannot help but to cry every time we talked on phone, that it kills me not to hear any news from the presence, and even to have thoughts that we’re apart could shed me some tears before I fall asleep at night. The presence used to be my old man when he worked outside the city, but time passes and life changes, I don’t love daughterly no more but youthly crammed unusual fondness of mi amor.

It Means Welcome

My head is filled with anxieties of grammatical error that posting even only one blog post could absorb my attention the whole day by having the need to re-read the post over and over. Love the obsession, though.

And to those of you who happened to notice the change of structure, or the flaws, in my writing, thank you for noticing those tiny differences.
Reduce the effort I should do to explain that I’m not perfect, as it have always been.

See you when I see you, then. Gotta catch some fresh air of freedom and ocean breeze.

Writer’s Digest

I’m such a selfish writer I seldom want to share the original content of my mind into my writing. Perhaps because I take such pride on reading people (realized it from a friend, but who doesn’t after all?), so I don’t want to be read.

Or perhaps I’m just being possessive of my idea that I want to keep it for myself.

Then what’s the point in posting, you say? Perhaps I do want to be read, by not just anyone, undoubtedly not by one of the people I’m not interested in, most important by my significant other. Similar to my wish to not ever using Blackberry because I don’t want to be easily found besides the mainstream bullcraps and how I hate the way it absorbs people’s attention from their surrounding, ugh I loathe it much. I think it is nice to have a little effort in everything. At least it won’t make you fat.

You might want to choke me by not being more straightforward. I can’t help it. I’m annoying by nature, love.
But I always try, though.