My family has never been big on Christmas; we do not have a decorated tree, we do not exchange presents, and Santa Claus was the guy from primary school who we get to take pictures with when we were small. Christmas has always been a holiday and generally involves my parents abducting us to church, bribed with food afterwards.

On Christmas Eve this year, I made it rather clear that I would not be joining them for church. What is the point in showing up merely once a year, I thought? Once is better than none, my dad argued. Look at it as an outing, my brother added. I gave in, and by 20h we were sitting nicely in the car driving to church.

The church was not the one that we normally went to when I was a small girl, before we moved. The smell however was the same; the church packed while the people solemn and quiet. The mass started and I turned my attention towards the children carrying crosses, candles, and flowers, followed by the group of pastors. The rituals of songs and conversational preaches were religiously performed. I followed blankly, a dutiful act of copying and herding, until I began feeling stupid for I have not understood the why of it all. I frowned and wondered whether someone might frown at me if I were to leave the young mass.

My dad suddenly turned and asked me with obvious silent signs to figure out the page that contains the text currently being sung. I flipped through the booklet, and my ultimate finding was followed by his slow singing that either joined or trailed the mass. He held the booklet towards me, hoping that I would participate and yet silent I remained.

I wanted to throw in a witty remark, or to ask whether they understand the rituals we were supposed to follow. However, seeing them joining and stumbling but continuously trying silenced me. This is their ritual, their way of seeking solace and finding meanings. Who am I to judge?

I didn't start singing, I didn't say a word when we were supposed to fill the void, I didn't have an epiphany on that sacred night. Instead, I sat there sandwiched between my dad on my left and my mom on my right throughout until the end. A slight nostalgia flirted with me, and we proceeded to supper at a sandwich place after we claimed my brothers who were sitting outside the church and stayed awake until midnight.

I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas, wherever you are and whoever you are with.

Recently, there has been a strange development in my nocturnal activities: I have started beading and making my own bracelets. Hours would past unnoticed while I try to combine colors into a harmony that I would wear and later undo the next day as I would be no longer satisfied with it. Days would past like this, elastic strings attached and dis attached, beads joined and separated once more. Happy.

Last Saturday, I decided to visit the traditional local crafts market whose name is legendary for the creative bunch that by all account excludes me; visible in how lost I was throughout my entire stay there, as evident by the number of people asking me which store I am looking for in the sincere pity for a lost duck.

I wandered around, amused by everything yet anxious of finding anything. I walked out of the last beads store in vain, ready to give up for the day, to the music of traditional Indonesian acoustic. I walked aimlessly, nostalgic from the little carts selling the simple delicacies of my childhood. I walked through the textile stores selling cloths, where the Indian and Indonesian owners called out for the wandering to pay a visit through their prided collections.

Suddenly, my gaze was stolen and frozen on a dark brown silk Batik that flows down the headless mannequin's contoured cotton body with the splendors of hand-painted golden flowers near her ankle. Despite my complete lack of basic sewing or other cloth-processing awareness, I walked in and left with 2m of it. All the while, the musicians played on in the humid heat of the outdoors.

I felt like a Javanese princess, electronic readers, it was so beautiful that this simple act remained with me until today.

I pace the car slowly. This city deserves its famous legendary traffic, I thought. After almost 3 months of daily driving, I realized that traffic does not tend to bring the best in people. Apparently, being stuck incites the feeling of a zero-sum situation. Honks everywhere; some people just cannot realize that loudness does little in ensuring a smoother ride. I sip my coffee in a disguised annoyance from my I heart Jakarta tumbler that the Bear had personalized for me. It is black and bitter, just the way I prefer it.

My brother who sometimes shares the ride with me is vast asleep on the first passenger chair. He reminds me of a cat sleeping in the sun on the porch during the lazy afternoons. I brake and noticed that he too had noticed the simple change in motion. He looks up sleepily, slowly observed the abundance of stationary cars around for 2 seconds before he falls back into another round of sleep.

I feel the Friday morning blues subsiding; I had become increasingly awake and aware of my surroundings. Another honk, another angry driver. Bangsat, he cursed. An intriguing thing about the Indonesians I realized is how they can be incredibly angry at one second and in another shares the most sincere smile when he walks in the office. It’s as if they have two personas, one for traffic mode and another for working mode.

The traffic light turned red and brought an army of street sellers along with it. Various assortments from mints to sweets, energy drinks to water, mangoes to fried tofu, little electric cars and mini whiteboards , faces on covers of the latest daily newspapers and magazines are offered straight to my window to which I politely said no to.

A man walked towards my car. His face looked down, conveying the implicit difficulties he is having through this simple act. He was carrying another man, whose face was dim and eyes demanded my gaze. His legs looked unhealthily thin
Thoughts raced in my head. To give or not to give, that is the question. I did not have any food nor water that I could give. Having grown up in this city, I am aware of the existence of mobs who send kids with babies, along with the disabled to the streets of Jakarta for money, anything, in exchange for nothing more than shelter.

Some of the disabled were not born that way, and wouldn’t more money act as an incentive for such behavior in the first place? I weigh the marginal costs and benefits associated with each act, and found myself back in the same place where I started.

I opened my window and gave me some of my change. The man carried looked at me and smiles, broken and yellowing teeth in full display of sincerity. The man carrying him remained motionless, and the only reaction he gave was to move on. After all, I had bought what he was selling: moral justification.

I have always wondered how the bus system in Jakarta works. And I do not mean the Trans Jakarta ones, but the green shabby ones with a yellowing Kopaja written faithfully; the monsters that I grew up with. Unlike the fixed stops I am used to, I rarely see such points in this city. What I see instead are buses stopping in the middle of the road as they wish, I assume to pick up the passengers. This observation led me to wonder whether no driver nor potential passengers ever complain against this erratic-ness.

This morning the traffic was surprisingly light, and I was finally close to my office when I saw an orange bus with no doors (the perfect specimen to represent its kind) slowing when a guy and a girl raised their hands in unison; the signal to summon I take it. A guy with visible money in his left hand jumped out from the back door while the guy jumped steadily and the girl carefully onto the front door. After ensuring the passengers were safely in, the money guy jumped back in and the doorless bus left in speed leaving no other trail of its presence but a cloud of smoke behind.

I watched the silent 5-seconds affair in a strange excitement while waiting for the red light. A second later a guy on a motorbike infront of me fell when another motorbike ignorantly pushed it on its elusive pursue to move forward amidst all the stationarity. I saw the first guy fell on the ground, accompanied by a loud thump of his vehicle on the concrete. Before I could even blink, 5 other guys rushed off their motorbikes and helped the guy up before attending to his bike. The perpetrator jumped off and apologized with sincerety in his eyes. The victim raised his hand and put on a reassuring face that he is alright.

The light turned green and everyone climbed back on their vehicles and drove on to start their day.

One of the crucial component of effective strategy to get through a working day in Jakarta is to wake up early. Admittedly, waking up early is not a proud trait I possess; I am shamefully not a fully functioning human being prior to my morning caffeine indulgence. This morning was an achievement even to me, to my surprise I drove through my office's gate before the clock struck 8. I smiled to the security squad, a wide smiled good morning hello that they are accustomed to have as much as I am accustomed to exhibit.

I put my engine to rest, a privilege I was deprived from at this early hour when Jakarta is still surprisingly cold. The rain season has started, leaving me amused with the frequency and variety of water falling from the sky.

I opened the door, and saw one of our Office Boys watering the grass. It took me awhile to recognize him outside of his familiar uniform. He was lost in his music, black earphones resting in his ears and evidently kept him happily watering in his own world. His head accompanied his body, swaying to the left and then to the right, sometimes first and later lagged. His steps are guided by the rhythm that only he was aware of while ensuring that the grass is happily fed. His eyes were half-closed, while his smile unabashed, unapologetic; the opposite of the polite smiles that I received daily.

Simple things that make this city special.

Friday. As usual the thought of the approaching weekend led me to flirt with the idea of coming home early, but this time the acquisition of an Ondaatje classic had given this idea a magnetic pull. I shrugged it off with my cup of coffee and morning newspaper in this office ritual, excited to know what I will come home to. Little did I know that now at 13h I am already sitting in my car on my way back through the screaming crowd of people.

I was having my lunch when I heard the door open. The boss had come to find me. Apparently today is the National Youth Day when a peaceful demonstration by students is scheduled that lends its history to the flashpoint of 1928. Disappointments related to the current government, that was what I had read.

From the moment she opened the door, I quickly sensed the air of urgency in her eyes. Apparently our HR just told the team regarding the growing rumor that involves the imminent anti-Chinese riots in Jakarta. She encouraged me to take the day off. I looked at her in disbelief. Surely these things would be possible back then in the 90s? Indonesia was a different Indonesia then, so much have been acknowledged now? Didn't we already went through this?

She looked at me, acknowledging that rumors are just rumors. But what if it would be true? That slight chance was enough for her to grant me the day off. She offered to call for a security officer from the HQ to escort me home and I politely refused. Nonetheless, I packed my bags and left my bule and Indonesian colleagues while they resume their work.

--

They look clueless as they walk towards the main street. Most look like they are having fun being in the crowd more than anything else. Some are singing their provincial anthems, some are screaming demands that became inaudible due to the quality of the microphones, some just laughed and smiled and went along. The traffic stifled any possible movement. More buses came, evidently heavy with people. More people came, more flags are waved, and the louder everything becomes. We were sheltered behind iron and glass but not much safer did it made us feel. No honks were declaring annoyance of being stuck in traffic; we were left to be silent observers in our own cars.

--

Indonesia today is not the Indonesia that it was. We have entered a new phase following the fall of the regime, and we have been lucky to be where we are. Surely there are flaws and problems that engulf this country, drawing us to think whether this country is drowning faster and faster. But as my colleague sharply pointed out, it is not that bad. The mere fact that we could walk down the street without any protection, that we could have lunch together with no fear is what makes us lucky. My thoughts went to passive curiosity whether the Arab Spring would be as fortunate.

--

It is raining and I am sitting in a coffee shop with fragmented thoughts. The sun is shining yet water poured down. It was not however the intense tropical rain that swallowed the city in its might as the last week. This is a soft rain, a gentle rain that has a calming effect. It refreshes one's thoughts, leaving me to wonder whether it has the same effect for those currently standing and shouting and waving and blocking the veins of Jakarta.

I rest my chunky stroopwafel above my steaming cup and read on.

More than 8 weeks ago I had packed and shipped 4 boxes of my life back to Indonesia without realizing to bring working clothes in my own suitcase. For a month, stealing my sister's clothes kept me from looking like a hobo in the office. But last night when I came home, they were there. My boxes are there. I was in utter disbelief, was it tiredness that caused the hallucinations? I have read stories about this.

The next morning they were still there. My boxes have made it home. I took the morning off to rummage through them, opening each boxes brought a smile to my face. The joy of being reunited! Working pants! Proper shirt! Heels! Books! Bed cover! The drought is over!!!

Yet with more item I touched, the heavier my heart becomes. How long ago has it been since I lived with them in my room in Holland? I realized how they became an ambassador of my life there, a bridge that still needs to be reconnected. Heavy in reminiscence, I began pondering why I have yet to feel happy to be back.

Two months ago, on a peaceful morning in a little espresso bar in Rotterdam there sat two young souls who met for a cup of coffee and a chat in good company. They were talking about their academic pursue, the coffee, their different yet interesting experiences and the unknown future when they began discussing holiday plans. One of them is in love with nature, the beauty of our ecosystem and how we all fit together, while the other smiles and sips her coffee imagining horrific encounters with bugs and bears. The person who imagined the bugs and bears was me, yours truly, and the friend felt challenged to convert yours truly into a nature girl. By our last sips we had compromised and decided spontaneously to go to my country to visit Borneo and Bali at the end of the Summer break.

A week later with no sign of malaria, I am proud to announce that I came back alive. I did not become a nature girl as my friend had intended, and she came back to Europe saying things like she is dying and she needs a lifeplan. It is such a beautiful thing to see how travelling buddies take each other’s traits without even realizing it. Having finished my first week of internship, I opened the picture folder from the trip and could not help but to feel a sense of warm nostalgia. I got off my chair, opened my right drawer and found my Lyon-Floral Paperback journal in it loyally. I opened it, browse through to the Borneo part and began reading. My imagination came back to those days, when everything seems to be a different world and I was a traveler, curious and scared and anxious and excited. It is so beautiful, I sat there reading through my journal and my mind plays the scenes back in my head. Everything feels so surreal yet at the same time I feel like I can even smell the trees, the river, the starry night…

From my journal:

August 23, 2011
Gunung Palung, Borneo day 2

We were woken up this morning by our guide at 5h30 by flashing his torchlight on our faces. At times like this we cannot help but to think back of the melodious sounds of our mothers with breakfast and orange juice on the table. After a cup of sweet tea and biscuits, we went for our first mini exploration through the rain forest, saw quite some animals high up on the trees; a good exercise for the eyes and ears. I felt like I was in a movie. I still cannot believe that I am here. It’s so different… hundreds of years of life(s) facilitated by this grand ecosystem I still fail to understand. Leaves everywhere in all sorts of shades. A lifecycle, the tree gives and it takes; it supports, feeds and decomposes while life continues, thriving in this harmony of mess. What surprises me the most is how clear everything sounds; the birds chirping like prehistoric dinosaurs that preceded them. Centuries old bugs who have been there for as long as the river flows. I close my eyes and open it again in an orchestra of species around me living together, supporting and predating on one another.

--

Back again at the lodge after a day of hiking. Tired yes, I have been sweating in parts that I did not know can sweat. I admit it was rough, and more than once did I regretted being there. It is so different from what I am used to, admittedly much more difficult than what my naïve mind chose to ignore. I guess it is great to be so spontaneous, yet nothing is worse than not being prepared enough. As we climbed and carefully descended the steep terrains, the seriousness of it all occurred to me. People died here, I could die here. Sadly once more I succumb to admit that my parents are once again proven to know better… I did thought that it was a piece of cake, when thorns hide skillfully between the layers all along. Do things you are scared of, take chances and live to the fullest. Yet never ever again underestimate what something entails, for there are always consequences for every decision that you make. In any case I am proud of myself to have not fallen, rolling down the mountain chased by possibly screaming or laughing Joann.






August 26, 2011
Tanjung Puting, Borneo day 5


Today was really memorable – shreds of images I will one day play in my head in glowing reminiscence. As I sat comfortably on the upper floor of my klotok, accompanied by my book, diary and pen, I couldn’t help but to feel like a princess. The smell of jasmine, intermingled with a chorus of insect repellent and sun protection soon received the attention of my nose. Without me realizing it they had mixed themselves on my skin everyday, masqueraded as my personal odor.

Through the swamp forest as we prepare our lunch, we became aware of the animals that were watching us high up on their branches. Monkeys, squirrels, birds and crocodiles that disappeared in a blink of an eye. I abandoned my camera even when the Proboscis monkeys follower our curious gazes, perhaps curiously too. “Dutch monkeys, that’s what we call these beauties,” our guide Hakim exclaimed. “Why?” I inquired. “Because they have yellow hair and big noses!” he explained with a smile that I returned.

Gradually, the water became black yet remained odorless, adding t the beauty of the smaller river ways. Hakim told us that somewhere below us, the dragon fishes lurk in the dark water, swimming without realizing the danger brought by their value. Soon we arrived, and after a quick tour to the Orang Utan feeding session we made our way through the primary forest where less have trodden. It was beautiful; the silence, the crack of dried leaves with every steps, the shyness of which the sun could not shower us completely with its light due to the canopies… Sometimes however there would be clearer areas, and the sun light would pierce through it and dazzled me with its beauty.

The klotok ride home was perhaps the most mesmerizing of all. The luminosity of the dark water seemed as a mirror that doubled everything that we saw. For some moment I was not sure which was up and which was down. The sun began to retreat, ripe in its color and warm in its glow. The trees growing from both sides, beckoning the clear dark river. Everything was perfectly mirrored. It was one of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen, and my eyes begged for it to stay yet it never did. I blink. I see the sun on my eyelashes. The wind blows slowly, tenderly moving through my hair. Such richness.. chirps, howls, singing, calling, a feast for the untrained ears. I blink and everything would change, a moment to another. It only left me with a sense of gratitude of being able to be there. I feel so awake, the moments unfold in all its perfection. I sat there, mindful of the passing moment, happily contented.

When night finally falls, I closed my eyes under the bright, numerous stars of Borneo. The milky way stretches itself, occasionally I would be granted of a wish under the falling star. My meditative state was broken only by the call of Hakim, marking our trek in search of the flowing mushrooms that unfortunately remained elusive.






We continued our journey to Bali, and in this island the anxiety from the realization of coming back to reality began to show in our minds. Internet, tourists, people on the streets calling out for us to buy something from them. How we missed the sanctuary of our humble hut! Yet Bali to me remains one of those places where something, I am not sure what or who or where or why or how or when, would remind me to breathe. This time it was the driver from our hotel that took us to a Japanese restaurant for dinner, in a 10-minute car ride conversation that raised my goosebumps for how timely those words from that stranger could be. We ended our night in a jazz bar in Ubud, and so ends our little travel that I will never forget in years to come.










“All this has reinforced my suspicion that adventure travel, whether armchair, or up-close-and-personal, has less to do with what’s there to be seen as what we have in us to see. We can travel the globe and see nothing, or wander through our gardens and be filled with awe by what we’s never previously imagined. For me, Indonesia remains one of the lats wild bits at the bottom of the garden of our world.”
-Lawrence Blair
Bali, 2009
Taken from The Ring of Fire

I was telling a friend of how anxious I get sometimes when I think of the great unknown ahead when she told me the first thing I should do is dust-off my blog. Great wisdom in that, considering that I have put aside reflections and the like for one-and-a-half months now. I have been traveling, and in the meantime finished my bachelor thesis and with it my 3-yrs education.

On one of my last travels from Paris we had to change trains in Rotterdam. When I walked down the stairs with my suitcases, I didnt realized how nostalgic I would get once I saw the familiar hallway to the platforms. Rotterdam Centraal, the plate notes. My heart sunk. I wanted to go home, to walk the familiar route to my flat, unpack, uncork a bottle and enjoy a night in with my Bear.

I am leaving tomorrow back to Indonesia, first to Borneo and then straight to my internship in Jakarta. It hit me I am leaving not just a city but a life. Three years, never did I realized how that life become a home. The mistakes I learnt. The books I read. The emotions I endured. The roads I biked. The studies I followed. The experiences I lived. The friends I met. The love I found. The laughters I shared.

How can one pack that?

A friend told me that the concept of home is relative, there is no absolute home. If there is one, then it would be in you. For things change, people leave and places disappear. You are there, in the beginning and ever will be. You are home. You decide where you want to live, where you'd like to go, who you'd like to share it with, but you are your home. It's in your brain, in your heart and in your blood. That is home.

As I board that plane tomorrow, you are the ones I will be thinking of. Let me tell you a little secret, this thought kept me awake at nights in fear. To leave the known to the unknown is a choice that I believe will develop one's self, yet scared I still am. Like a little girl lost, scared yet serenaded by the sound of violin.

The little step to another chapter, the journey began with that single step. The journey where, one may ask as I asked myself numerously these past few days. The journey home,

perhaps.

It's a thunderstorm outside. The rain seems to pour without mercy. The lightning breaks the darkness with a loud grumble. I am inside, calmly sipping my chilled wine. Maybe I am calm because a thunderstorm is breaking havoc in my too. Do people who are lucky enough to face the uncertainty of opening a new chapter face the same thing?

I am coming home. After three years of a certain study period, I am coming home. Why? That it a question I am yet to know the answer. I guess the hardest thing about living abroad is that flight back from home. Where the realization that your family is getting older without you grips your heart like a constrictor killing its prey.

I do not have anything waiting for me after I hand in my thesis this month. The job I wanted and worked hard for to continue my study did not happen. It started the thunderstorm, not because of not getting it but the questions it raised within me on where I would like my life to bring me.

When I was 5, a clown at a friend's birthday party asked me what I want to be when I grew up. I said I wanted to be a boss, like my dad. My dad could have never been prouder, boasting to everyone he knew how I wanted to be a boss. Another year later I wanted to be a president. Then a lawyer. A photographer. A war-journalist. A writer. A designer. An economist.

My study intrigues me. To help things out I found out soon enough that I am good at it. It developed me, challenged me and for that I am grateful for. But not getting that job made me realize of these passions I turned away from for the fear of not being good enough. The risks. The uncertainties.

I did not get the job I wanted. I do not know what I will do.

I enrolled myself to a summer French course, 4hrs a day from 9am for two weeks. I am taking the test tomorrow.

I am flying home in August, travelling first to Borneo and then back to Jakarta for the foreseeable future.

And I could not be happier.

Today started like any other day. Breakfast was enjoyed, clothes worn, things put in the bag. But bike would not start - the wheels could not roll. It was like a bird who hurt its wings, deprived of the simple pleasure of normality from flying. Someone had kicked the backwheel, and as the force pushed it the front wheel held firm to its post and was simultaneously bent.

After class, Bear helped me to bring my bike to the bikeshop. He examined the tires and predicted grimly. We tried nonetheless. Throughout the journey the wheels made the most heartbreakingly soft sound. It made me really worried. It was as if it was dying, lying there on its deathbed in silent suffering.

The verdict was final - Bikeguy confirmed Bear's belief. It will be too costly to repair - and even he advised against it. "It's not worth it," he assured us.

Bear looked at me sincerely and asked whether we should take it home and call someone to bring it to the bikegarbage, or should we release it into the wild unlocked and let it be stolen.

I swallowed hard. I would prefer to bring it home, yet the looming thought of it being shoven into a cage filled with broken bikes, waiting to be destroyed prevents me from deciding for it. If it would be left unlocked, some junkie will take it home, probably fix it and sell it to another student, giving it some more years.

The irony that I too had bought it from a junkie for 50bucks.

Bear stripped the flower bag off the back saddle, and chose a quiet neighborhood and unlocked it. I stood further away, watching Bear watch me and pat it goodbye. My eyes felt warm. I realized how heart broken I was seeing this bike which had been with me for almost 3 years, for as long as I have been living here in NL.

:(

I guess that is life - you get dependent on something, and the next thing you know randomly a stranger just comes along and kick it beyond repair.

Mnyaaaaaaaa

It is late at night. My fingers are tired of putting in data into excel, a typical day as thesis deadline draws near.

The numbers I am putting in became a routine, in the search of efficiency my brain saw the number and focused on transferring it into my database. The number is the number of people who died from collective violence in Indonesia's provinces in 1990s-2000s.

My eyes grew accustomed to the numbers, ranging from 0 to 1000 at a point in time. They became numbers, the deaths. Slowly I began asking why. Slowly I began pondering about the people behind the numbers.

Having lived and studied in the Netherlands, where convenience and safety is a birthright, I began to contrast things with my country - where I was born, where chaos is constant. Is that why I decided to write my final thesis on it?

The mind ponders. The fingers type. The night serenades. The number stays.

An email arrived, a reply from a friend regarding my birthday invitation. As I will be celebrating it in the Netherlands and she resides in the US she is unable to make it. "We'll have a little celebration for you in New Orleans..."

A rush of missing gripped my heart. I miss my friend. I met her in Paris during our semester abroad last Fall. We met during the introduction weekend, she was a nice American girl living 2 storeys above my flat. Foreigners in a country we were excited to explore, we became friends. We travelled together, found joy in croissants and brie, shared bottles of wine.

After 4 months, politeness subsided and we stopped being nice to each other. That was when we became friends. Rough moments in missing families, lives prior, friends and boyfriends. It felt so long yet so short now.

When I was waiting for my train back to Rotterdam in December, talking to her in person for one last time over a glass of beer in Gare du Nord, did we finally realize how far we will be. We both know it will be years until we can poke and laugh at each other again for inherent loserness, perhaps that was what made it so hard.

Missings.

The bitterness reminds one to appreciate each moment, each person, you and me. Wake up, tell those you love just that, that you love them. For everything can change in the blink of an eye. One day we are going to wake up with just that. Missings.

Don't let it pass you by.

I miss you, friend, wherever you are.

NvP to me:

"I appreciate having my own place, being able to study econometrics, to be a healthy person with no physical disabilities, to be in the honours class, living in peace, knowing so many great good people like you, to be free, to be loved & to be able to love, to have food every day against almost no cost...

Life is so easy.. So good.. I often just dont realize we're in fact in a paradise of freedom.. And that sometimes makes me unworthy of the life I was given.. So its time for me to appreciate more!

What do you appreciate in your life? :)"

I went to an art supply store today to get cartons. On the way to the staircase, I noticed a woman painting. She was painting with all combinations of blue, mixing together and forming another beautiful shade that is nowhere else but there. I stopped and watched her moving her brush, the brush was dancing left and right, intently and relaxed. It was beautiful.

"It's beautiful," I said to the woman with a white apron which was covered in blue paint.

She was startled, looked at me and smiled so sincerely I still smile because of it.

It's funny how inherently fickled priorities are, how what you consider important today might be something that you have never even thought of, or even avoided, before. Does that make them less of a priority, if they change, if you know they will change? What are they?

A friend told me that when in doubt, just make sure you are going forward. "To go forward is always the right way...but what is the right way forward?"

But yet again what is forward?

I pondered upon this question - what is forward? Is it winning? Losing and learning? Falling and standing up again? Is it learning? Is it improvement?

I guess this depends on your definition of success. What is success to you? What matters most to you? What do you value the most at this point in time?

To know what you want close to your heart, what you would like to be remembered for, what you stood up for with every single thing that you do - isn's this mere acknowlegement already a way forward?

During a dinner with a friend she told me how she saw a little girl crying infront of a supermarket. She was lost. After a while her dad found her, shoved her off the ground and told her that everything is going to be alright while showing her the way home. She told me how at that point she felt a pang in her heart - she was envious of that little girl. A guiding hand, is that what we miss most as we grew up? Or is it just because we are growing up that we purposely left it behind, so that we would grow up?


I began to ponder.

"I missssssssss Brasil so much! Everything, especially the amosphere with all the friendly and optimistic people, who are never complaining and enfrent life with smiles on their faces no matter the diffuclties they are passing through. The fairytale country where everything is possible. Where every day is a big surprise, and things can change a lot from one moment to another. The land where people throw away their watches and live, party and take advantage of life, loving their close ones, like there might be no tomorrow, after all we never know whether we´ll be there tomorrow.... The country where you need no sleep, living on adrealine."

"...having the feeling that things have to be productive and otherwise they dont value anything is a disease of the western society I guess"

Well said, friend.

She was sitting across from him
The table deorated with flickering candles -
they smelt like cinnamon-apples and vanila
They reminded her of their early days;
everything was so new
everything was so simple
everything was so easy

She looked at him and asked
She asked something that has been deep inside her
She asked:

"What would we do
if I go home?"

Silence. His eyes dimmed.

"Go home - you mean something for more than a year?"

Silence. Her eyes felt warm.

"Yes."

Silence. They looked away - deep in own thoughts.

They looked away.

Noone knew what to answer,
noone wanted to answer.

The night goes on.

I have been reading through applications for the selection of the new HC year throughout my weekend. Only slightly more than 2 years ago was I in their position, applying for a nerdclub, a decision that I have never regretted even once. It always mesmerizes me how one finds oneself on the other end, to be able to see things not from that side but from here. It made you think on another level that you were not used to, pushing you to consciously think about the other side.

Reading through their applications admittedly interested me. Some of their resumés and motivations really do impressed me, while some failed to do the same. As I sit here sipping my tea, I began to wonder about my own application. What did I write? What did they think of it? Am I living up to it, did the words stayed fluffy yet empty? I began to think of where I was, where I am.

I was so naïve.

Lately I have been thinking alot of what is coming ahead, the choices that stands, ready to be made. Time seemed so short. The implications of the options, the steps and outcomes baffled me. The diversity overwhelming. I guess I forgot to think back to that girl 2 years ago who wrote her application, a little step that she did not realize would bring her here. She forgot to realize how far she's gone since.

I know that the choices I will soon have to make will not set my life in concrete, but I acknowledge the direction it will lead to an extent. Which direction would I like it to be? I tried finding my application, curious of what I wrote back then. Hoping to cheat from past-her to help future-her. I couldn't find it.

Will I know?

One would desire making something out of one's life - what that something is another matter altogether.

When I was in France doing nothing but eating and travelling, I aspired the day when I am back in Rotterdam, back in real life. For it was nice living without responsibilities - until the point that you feel itchy for something more.

I've been back for exactly a week now, it has been an incredibly demanding week. Emotionally and physically, I had to run to merely keep up with life. When I was in Indonesia for winter break, my program coordinator called me to ask whether I would join her team as her teaching assistant for the HC. Being a nerd that I always am I said absolutely.

Now on top of my 3 courses, I have another TA job and a position to lead the Board. Funny how one jumped from one spectrum of tasks to another in a heartbeat.

All eloquency aside, all I want to do is to punch Past Denica on her face.

Funny how humans are never satisfied - I guess complaining is a skill printed in too deep to hide.

I know it is alot and I am baffled by how I managed before but slowly I began to wake up not with dread of the fullness of the day but with a tiny excitement.

But of course, I still want to punch Past Denica on her face.

First day back in university. Long. Meetings and interviews splashing cold water to wake you up to reality. Exciting yet abundant responsibilities to recarry. I came home and opened my door to this:



I walked and reached over to read the note. A smile was etched on my cheeks.

Love.



Danke schön, bulu.

Yet another stay is drawing to another end. After almost a month being home, that flight back became more than a flight to another country, it became a flight to another life, another reality. Being here gives one the opportunity to realize, to slowly understand more yet at the same time to be more scared. The mere observation that provides the inevitable fact that your family is growing, each day a little bit older and never coming back, they’re growing older without you. This simple yet difficult thought derives one into emotional battles with one’s self, remarkably when one is about to leave yet once again.

For I realize that leaving becomes more difficult as one gets older, because they’re getting older.

One of my biggest fears is, god forbids, coming home because something had happened. The thought that you were not there kept me awake at nights.

Being a semester away from my degree, I began to ponder gamely what I would do with it. Will I start working, continue my studies, travel, come home? Each scenario was played in my head, closing none of the options. I used to have an idea of a life that I thought I would lead, a life envisioned. What I was continually reminded of is the pace by which they continually change, adapt to the you who you are at that moment. Dreams change. Time changes everything, priorities will be reshuffled. The more you think about it the more confused you get on which path to take next.

We make choices each day, yet some choices baffle with the intensity of the considerations that are being taken into account in order to make them.

I realize I am falling into another fallibility of mine; to think is a blessing yet a dreaded habit when one overdo it at times. A friend laughed and told me over coffee to keep it simple. She received a call one day last year when she was still studying in the States that something had happened to her father. She came back to be with her family and stayed here until now. She had dreams, maybe is she was given a choice she would not have preferred this but she made that choice and regrets nothing. Being here, she told me, did not destroy my dreams. It gave me another.

The idea that each choice will lead to a specifically different outcome might hinder one from making any choice at all. I guess a part of being human is that we just sometimes don’t know. I guess the wise thing to do is to limit it to one step at a time, the next step being that flight back in two days time into real life. The responsibilities that await, the lessons to be learnt entice yet scare me. For no one knows whether one is ready, perhaps ever. I suppose the wise thing to do is just to fly in and see.