Now. I still cannot figure out why I just decide to post something here when I am really supposed to do something else.

But, I tell you, I really wanna write something down. And the title of this post has given the whole idea.

Here we goes.

I was woken up by the alarm.
I was dressed by my hands and instinct.
My dresses were made in Indonesia.
They were mostly given by mother.
The breakfast was made by the housekeeper.
But it was taken by my mouth.
Swallowed by my esophagus, and digested by my intestines.
The motorcycle was ridden by Pak Nanang.
And I was taken to the uni by it.
The elevator to the classroom was called by a stranger.
And no 'good morning' was uttered from him.
I was lifted up by the elevator.
I was headed to the class by my feet and curiosity.
We were taught by a lecturer.
Some of us were put to sleep.
We were intrigued not to ask questions by the monotonous delivery.
We were left with emptiness by his 94 slides.
The lunch were bought using Baba's money.
But it was cooked by Mas Bee from Kantin Prima.
It was a dish wished to be consumed by a hunger.
But I was too hungry to be realized by it.
I was taken home by exhaustion.
I was free to decide.
I was blinded by freedom.
Then I was lied down by denial and proscrastination.
I was hit by a sudden realization;
I was dissolved in stoicism.



I'm now entering a module break and I'm having a quality time with myself. Soon, I will be having a quality time with Baba, who's arriving by any hour this dawn.

Besides being all productive on keeping my room neat and appreciating my sweet Grandma's effort in assistance, I took the opportunity of watching two movies. Two movies filmed under the setting of the old century. Two movies with themes of love and deceit, and gave tragic endings. Anna Karenina and The Great Gatsby. Both are derived from books written by great authors, and that is one of the main reasons why I picked them out, among other current top movies, one of which is 'The Insidious 2'.

Anna Karenina took her own life at the end. She was a beautiful married woman (to a reputable man who worked in the Ministry) and she fell in love with a young and rich man. They were both madly in love with each other and so they had an affair and she was looked down upon in society because she cheated on her husband (in those times, a wife having an affair was very much disdained by society, especially the upper crust). Anyways, when her husband finally let her do what she wanted, obviously she went to live with her lover. But because she was always publicly humiliated, the young man couldn't live with it because he was once an honorable gentleman. And so he left her for another younger woman, and Anna Karenina was so depressed by it and threw herself on the railway while a train was passing by. Tragic.

I like Gatsby a lot better. The description of love in this story is so utterly substantial. Gatsby, he made a lot of money and bought a big mansion in New York that attracted the whole people to attend it every weekend, in hope that the girl of his dreams (who was already married) would come by some time. It was... bewildering but, honestly, I think I'd do the same as what Gatsby did. Gatsby did all that it took to marry the woman, that doing so made him become an altered person. Gatsby died carrying the woman's sin, which he was so determined to keep it unexposed and let her live free of the price she had to pay for.

Well, one thing I absolutely learned was, if I cheat on my soulmate (ya Allah, naudzubillah, I promise I'll be the most loyal wife), I'm pretty sure I'd be cheated on as well by my lover, sooner or later.

I have never stopped pondering about what love is. And I haven't given up upon believing it (have I ever, I wonder?). And I know, I feel it. It's been there eversince I was born. From the moment the sperm from Baba and the egg from Mama achieved fertilization, the whole period Mama has been tolerating pain and nauseousness when I was only a zygote, barely as big as a cup of coffee (among other things, I don't know why I chose to compare my zygotic size with a cup of coffee), including when I was only an embryo (larger than 'venti of Starbucks Coffee'). The obstetrician who was there all along, whose job was to make sure the delivery of me went smoothly, was also in the circle of love.

I think it's beautiful when I see a room full of people, or a bunch of movie characters, fighting for love. It's also heart-rending, to let a person know that you're actually fighting for them. And how pathetic and regretful when they let go of or give up on it, for something that isn't as blissful and as long-lasting as love. Very pitiful.

I don't also understand why people cheat on their significant others. We typically think that it's okay if we do so and keep it buried under the sheets forever without them having to know about it ever. Everything would be fine, right? But there's a but. I think when two people share a special bond, they grow to trust each other. And the deepest trust lies in believing that the better half is being faithful all the time. And when we're unfaithful, despite them unsuspecting, little of us realize that we've just broken the deepest trust we shared with them.


05:00 AM

I lie down.
Eyes closed.
I listen.
The birds chirping.
The mosquitoes buzzing.
The machine of my laptop. As if it also respires.
The car which just passed by, thats' machine is even louder.

I changed my position.
My ear closer to the pillow.
I listen.
All that I mentioned just now.
And my heartbeat.
My blood rushing in its' vessels.
Vital sign. Strong. In rhythm.
I feel drowsy.
Fajr. I haven't prayed.
I feel drowsy.
The birds chirping.
The mosquitoes buzzing.
The machine of my laptop. As if it also respires.
The car which just passed by, thats' machine is even louder.
My heartbeat.
My rushing blood.
The drowsiness. Its real.
How real everything sounds.
What is truly real?
I can't hear it.
It has to be real.

I'm deaf.
And I have to pray.


I'm lost. I've been trying to figure out what being successful means.
Sure, I'm studying medicine now.
Sure, I'm becoming a doctor.
Sure, I'll be treating my patients with good care.
Sure, I'll get at least a degree.
Sure, within every word of 'sure', the soul within whispers 'insyaAllah'.

I cannot find words to define it, nor even imagine it as a vague image in my mind.
Like every aspect of life, people are mostly influenced by the media and the social circle. I believe both are actual contributors in constructing an individual's idea of success. They give such strong impact that sometimes, we think their definitions of success are the onliest and absolute. We don't know what we want and we go for the things major people want because we think we might want the same thing. And I think it's sad that people have to go through a long journey of life only to discover that the accomplishments they have made, though maybe publicly prestigious, aren't truly their passion in life, aren't precisely what they were after for in the first place.

I think there's this tiny voice in our mind (or heart), that is innate and maybe a bit peculiar, but we keep on ignoring it only because we think we're limited by the 'realistic' capabilities designed by the community, we're restricted by our own perceptions of what we can reach, of what people normally score. Or maybe we don't heed it, because we're aware of how it is unlikely to award us financial sufficiency. Besides, isn't that what our society commonly perceive as what success is?

Perhaps success is knowing what you're aiming for from the beginning, and trusting that little voice that whispers different things in each of us, that frequently murmurs the different things we're passionate about in life. And with that, we compose our own song that isn't a mainstream, fabricate our own vision of success that isn't a stereotype of what people expect, and what we expect people would accept.