There was a time

 

…when I used to cry just because I don’t write.

No one told me it’s obligatory.
It just started once I get a pocketbook, as a gift from brother’s friend’s birthday party.
Michelle Harriet, her name was.
The first page was about my getting the book, and how I misheard ‘Harriet’ as ‘Karet’, which made me giggle each time the clown exclaim her name.

No one told me it’s obligatory.
Maybe it was something in the way the word ‘diary’ imprinted on the cover sounded imperative for me.
Ever since then, I kept track of things daily. Without amiss.

I was 8 years-old.

Back then, we often went out of town on weekends. Up to the hill, two-hours-driving distanced. We called ‘Puncak’ for this peak of a mountain in neighbouring province. This was not secret escapade plan at all. Most families that have kids seemed to peculiarly share the identical idea on weekends. Traffic jam, hence, was accepted as consequence of the trip.

So someday we went on family trip to Puncak. I didn’t bring the book.
We’re going for some 3 days 2 nights.

When I arrived back at home, I was–like everyone indubitably was–tired.
Were they? I constantly got the impression that they were.
Long driving in the car always seems to get on everyone’s nerves, including those who don’t drive,
even though they’re just sitting.
Plainly sitting. Most of the time, even sleeping. But apparently that drains our energy too.
And not to imply the sort-of-commotion afterwards. The ritual of sorting dirty clothes, unpacking things, bathing properly, etc etc.
All this done in weary mood and worn-out energy and everyone was ready to bark.

I then was strucked by…. the book! I hadn’t written in it for long (it felt quite long).
The thought of having ‘writing debts’ stood me aghast.
I grabbed the tiny book, opened it up, and started writing. Keeping up from what I’d left three days ago.

Yet my body felt so sore and I was so sleepy and things seem to be slipping out of mind I hardly can recall them precisely.
All this, accompanied with inner voices pestering in my head.
Three writings in a row are abundant…
I can’t delay till tomorrow, there will be much more to catch up if I do…
But I’m tired, my lids are ready to fall off….

That’s when I started to cry.
Sobbing, keep on writing, whilst cursing why didn’t I bring the book
and why the hell I have to write this all
and why three days are so much to write down
and some of the tears dropped on the writing

and my dad, upon seeing me crying, gets angry. Why do you cry, silly, he said.

I didn’t answer. What to answer anyway?

I can’t recall what happened after that, but I get this feeling that it ended up happily.
Having some good sleep to reward myself afterwards.

***

The scene felt distant, like peeping on someone else’s memory.
For I no longer possess the trace of ever being that child.

I skip routines. I scarcely remember I have anything done routinely.
I excuse myself often from tasks I’ve supposed to get done, from efforts should’ve been taken in order to get what I want.
I excuse things that I restrict myself from.

 

 

I kinda miss that silly little kid.

 

 

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I’ve always been

…a cruel kid.

Few days ago, through trains of circumstances, I’m made to think about my bad trait to use difficult words.

(and difficult way in constructing sentences, that is).

I’d been wondering ever since, have I always been like this? Or is it something developed along the way, is it triggered by something?

Then I remembered. I am used to, as early as 6th grade.
And it was not for pleasant intention.

Back then, I scolded my close friend,

“Why do you have to plead someone who possesses lower level of intelligence than you do?”

….man.

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