East Java, Mt. Argopuro

Well, guess what? Since I can’t really put anything on my social media account, so I’m just gonna pour a heavy and dense rain into this.

That’s why I can barely stand people. Ink and papers have the patience. I think it’s critical for me to be heard, listened to. To be understood, at least, for a small portion.

In this world, where I re-frame the wall and floor, even though it is only mere black and white, I assure you I’m the whole universe of it, the axis which it strives to rotate every single day. Maybe in the other part of the world, I could be just a tiny dot amongst the chaos.

No, there is no door nor windows. So I could be safe just inside far far away from the harms.

But for the pen, ink, and papers, I’m their world. The universe.

How convenient for the people, ignorance such a bliss.

To tell you truth, I’m fighting my own freaking battle here. Don’t just throw everything on my face, because if I’m on my normal state I could ask for a minute so we could take a seat, side by side, and have a bloody conversation. No, at this very current situation, I cannot do that.

What I realize, even the slightest ripple, that trigger, can cause an erratic heartbeat to me. I thought it had been blown away, gone baby bloody gone. I’ve been developing this particular self-coping mechanism to put aside all of the trash; I watch videos and movies, writing and reading things. Basically, running away. Sometimes they did help. Until I stumbled into postings, photos, chats, which contained something that, you know, triggered me.

That kinda set me off. Got upset. So I chose to get away, getting immersed into other activities just to occupy my mind.

The pro side, I’m trying to go back to my perseverance. I run for three to four km, keeping up with half an hour of time. Twice a week. It felt above good.

No, baby, I don’t want to get drown even though you’ll let me down. This is not a comfort zone, it’s a depressed zone! And you’re welcome to it.

I’m starting to think to get myself a psychiatrist. Idk, should I?

I’m only 7 credits (SKS) away from being a Bachelor of Engineering thus I shall break the hell loose from ALL OF THESE SHENANIGANS CALLED ENGINEERING.

Could you tell the differences, if you have troubled yourself to venture my blog? From my old writings?


I curse. I try to avoid that anywhere I’m on cyberworld. Including real, ofc. Tell you what? It felt good too. And I’m starting to despise the friends I used to like to hang around with, their behaviours, their words, from chats to simple postings. I can feel that I’m getting away from God, there is great lump in my throat, a burden which is larger-than-life on my shoulders, because something in me, my conscience, can determine between right and wrong.

Yes, this is wrong. I’m deteriorating like a roller coaster falling down from the sky. It’s degrading. Again, what can I do?

Like, on the phase-changing state.

I’m the water that got boiled up up and away, getting evaporated in the air, blown blown away. Gone baby gone by the heat, the rush of everything yea

No no, stop talking about sharing and making postings about taking care of everyone, day reminder, or any other craps. Because baby, if you don’t even lift a finger when your friends are falling down, to pieces, then what are you?

By the way, it’s not solely academic problems. If you peel off an onion, it will reveal in the form of layers, they brought you to tears, make you want to scrap on your eyes even though you can’t, it’ll make it worse.

And do you know, what’s the good side about being me? I get to know life a tad bit better and in another way of thinking, gotten rid off the blissful ignorance, in a kind of harsh way.

If I only ever make it out alive though.

Since I thought that there were not many people who visited my blog, so I decided to write it down here. Getting them out of your chest. It wouldn’t hurt anyone if you smash the keyboards with all your might, right? No, kidding, my laptop is one of my best buddy.

I wish to say something to you. Why are you so busy trying to save yourselves, putting efforts in greater good, spreading enormous amount of reminders, while some people are not able to reach out their hands asking for help? Now, I’ve learnt that when it came to problematic mental health, some people can barely deal with logic and reasons. No, you don’t know. Because you’ve never been in OUR shoes and dance around with it.

Do you even try to?

I’m scared, worried, afraid. Do you know what is more pathetic? Maybe you’re afraid too,  of life, of everything as well as I am, or simply don’t bother to care.

Luckily, there are seven millions people in this planet called Earth. So, I can safely say, that the world has not crumbled. Yet. Too many probabilities, there could be the good, the bad, and the ugly.

I’m gonna write down the most current quote which caught my eyes, from American Psycho:

…there is an idea of a Patrick Bateman, some kind of abstraction, but there is no real me, only an entity, something illusory, and though I can hide my cold gaze and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable: I simply am not there. It is hard for me to make sense on any given level. Myself is fabricated, an aberration. I am a noncontingent human being. My personality is sketchy and unformed, my heartlessness goes deep and is persistent. My conscience, my pity, my hopes disappeared a long time ago (probably at Harvard) if they ever did exist. There are no more barriers to cross. All I have in common with the uncontrollable and the insane, the vicious and the evil, all the mayhem I have caused and my utter indifference toward it, I have now surpassed. I still, though, hold on to one single bleak truth: no one is safe, nothing is redeemed. Yet I am blameless. Each model of human behavior must be assumed to have some validity. Is evil something you are? Or is it something you do? My pain is constant and sharp and I do not hope for a better world for anyone. In fact I want my pain to be inflicted on others. I want no one to escape. But even after admitting this—and I have, countless times, in just about every act I’ve committed—and coming face-to-face with these truths, there is no catharsis. I gain no deeper knowledge about myself, no new understanding can be extracted from my telling. There has been no reason for me to tell you any of this. This confession has meant nothing…

P.S: Even while writing this, I still bother to be a grammar Nazi lol.

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