Love is a Tinder thing

If you're on Tinder and happen to be in Jakarta at some time, it won't be strange if you come across my Tinder profile. Just like others who portray their personality as: 1) that perfect friend surrounded by a lot of people (so you may not look like a lone, miserable human being), 2) adventure-seeker or trend-watcher drenched in curiosity-inducing activity (you're not going to THAT concert? Or, oh hi, I like to do bungee jump in my spare time), and 3) all featuring your own face in the most stunning way possible (that perfect angle? that God-just-so-flawless-lighting accompanied with #iwokeuplikethis #after25minsofmakeupofc), then you will see a photo of me, wearing Minnie ears headband complete with the bow... sitting right in front of my office desk.

Okay so, the first thing I need to clarify is: although the photo suggests otherwise, I am a die-hard fan of the Duck couple. Since Daisy's pink bow is less iconic than mouse's ears, also up to this point Disney haven't invented wearable beak (in which I'm 100% sure it will help me to get more matches), so I chose to wear the headband that I bought at a Disney on Ice event a couple of years ago.

Looking at that particular photo, a guy from Japan, according to his personal standard, asked if I happened to be a supermodel. For a split second, I thought he really needs to take an eyesight test.

Talking about another Japanese expat (now you can guess my type!), which actually also the first time I met someone from Tinder—I ended up alone in my rent room, confused at how rude he was when we were having a light drink. He was talking in his broken English about going to have a farewell party thrown for him at his apartment and occasionally emphasizing the word 'FUCKING' several times in his sentences, like, '...my FUCKING friends are going to have a FUCKING farewell party for me,' and I sincerely couldn't recall the rest since he hadn't mentioned anything that worth remembering and had the meaning of 'oh I should come with him'. The only good thing was, he left me, frustrated, with two Rp100k bills to pay for our drinks (which cost less than that and as a broke first-jobber, I kept the change. HA!) Later I learned two things from my poor ability in reading social cues: 1) that perhaps God had saved me from going home with that weirdo, and apparently, 2) this is also the reason I never had a boyfriend in my entire, soon-to-be 27 years old life. Dang it! (I'm so sorry for the guys who ever got close to me during my school and college years!—as I internally shout into the void of my memories.)




(to be continued)

The hands that held too tight

Still taken from Crumb — Bones: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nD3iG6m44g8

Back in 2015, I wanted to clench happiness so hard I didn't realize that I had hurt my hands instead. I was trapped in the idea of happiness is something that you can feel with your hands but certainly forgot to read the asterisk that says handle with care because the next thing I knew, I already smashed it to bits.

The thing that I held dearly to my heart had slipped through my fingers, disappearing from my sight. The day that I was afraid of eventually happened. I couldn't keep it on my hands—heck, I think I was never ready even when it first came to me easily like a simple 'hi' on my screen. Bruises and fresh line of red greeted me as I looked at the place where it had positioned itself months ago. I sat down, and I let thoughts gushed out from my mind.

The words 'happily ever after' had been imprinted on my brain as an abstract concept that I needed to, at least, put it into some sort of shape. I demanded a concrete existence. I cannot be happy, as I said to myself, if I don't know for sure that the happiness I've been searching for has rested its wings in the palm of my hands—and just like that, I'd done everything to ensure it wouldn't go anywhere again.

Turned out, having it doesn't always mean that you're owning it. It was wrong, if not a dumb idea, to hold onto something just because you want to feel something.

I glanced over my hands for one more time. It tingled.

All I need at that time, I guess, were running water and some time to let it heal itself.

Writer's note

One day, out of nowhere, a so-called Shunji Iwai fan, aka me, decided to make a new blog after listening to the following song:

The idea of collecting any writing—basically my take on life's mundanity—other than daily babbles in one place amused me, and that became the basis for this blog. I've always wanted to write in a form of writing that I feel unfamiliar with, such as personal essay, poem, and even collaboration project like many of young writers my age have been doing out there—acting like an editor for their own private, digital publication. So, as a part of my new year's resolution: to write more—I chose to follow the same path.

I was determined to name this blog "Fish in the pool" at first, as a tribute to the movie; but then I noticed that doing so would make this blog less personal than I intended to be. I, then, rather unconsciously, wrote "Words written on the page" as the title—and a few seconds later, another part of me managed to exist in this online world.

Now that you know a bit of me and the story behind this blog, I'm more than pleased to see you arrived safely to this tiny sanctuary. Enjoy your stay here, darlene.