You Better Work, Girl.

One’s own uniqueness need no affirmations.

Born out of chains of exclusively mixed genes of two different entities, one is unique in one’s own.

But hope not for other people to recognize it. Or give you trophy of appreciation for that.

Among thousands of unique individuals, your name is just another unique combinations of a pair of eyes, ears, a piece of mouth, nose, & tounge.


Your name is a conclusive concept.


Why then, would we care to remember your concept
& risk spending our limited memories on that?

You have to be a very special concept.
Elaborate, branching out, horizontally- vertically complex, & most of all, understandable.


It is thus your duty to make yourself understandable. It is your inherent duty to understand yourself.

Once you understand yourself, you could create presentation suitable for the concepts you carry.


Once your presentation echoes your substance, you are intact.

You are a work of Art.

You are a Beauty in yourself.


But beauties are ephemeral. It is never meant to last. For its fleeting nature is also what makes it a beauty. And humans are dynamic.

You are ever-changing. That makes you beautiful.


There’s more to convincing people that your name worths their memory.
That is, to make good use of the concepts you carry.
To make yourself useful.


Thus you touch other people’s life.
You fill in their gaps. For no humans are perfect.
There has to be holes somewhere, waiting to be intact.


You do this through work.
The work you-in-this-very-minute do & the work the-next-minute-you do will be different.

Just because, you are ever changing.


Thus you work,

to make concepts inherently entrusted to you come to be useful.

You work,
to honour the ever-changing you.


A salutary to Eternity,
you work to honour your Beauty.


That is,



& Exclusively,




Nothing beats the feeling
Of wanting chips so much
Something salty and crunchy
In the middle of the night
That you paused the movie you’re watching
You dragged yourself to reach minimart
To find it closed
And dragged yourself even further to find one that opens
Bought your favourite and took it to your room
Open up the lid and smell it
Took and throw your first piece
Into your watery mouth
Only to find it
Ends up
In your mouth
On your healthy tounge

Nothing beats the feeling of disbelief
Making you reach further to the bottom of the can
To chew much more
Much much more
More more more
Only to find it tastes
Like nothing
Nothing on your tounge

Ever felt so wrong

Melancholia_MEATLOAF 1

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Melancholia_MEATLOAF 9



In many aspects of myself, I’m a first time learner.
But in this single regard, I refuse to be a naivete. Especially because it involves sentiments.

You know how young girls’ head are filled with the sparkly, blooming ideas of how their life are prepared for someone special that would take them by the hand and love them no matter their conditions are?
You know how beautiful ladies are convinced that they are indeed beautiful by the increasing numbers of men who either ask them out, text them consistently, pouring out attentions, or giving bouquets/chocolates/or any not-so-conventional offerings with jaw-dropping values?

I am a girl in the beginning of adulthood and I refused to fall into the same trap.
I never considered myself unattractive but I definitely not one of those lassies who would make heads turn when she passes accross the street.
But the numbers of the men are increasing and I frankly am suprised.
Then I remember…
We humans are nothing but thinking beasts, right. To hell with sacred monogamy concept that this thousand years-old civilization has sculpted into our heads.
It has nothing to do with how physically attractive the women are.
Or how beauty, brain, and behaviour translates into gentlemen courting.
This phenomenon is simply born out of general equation that male beasts are drawn to sexually active females to lay their sperms into.
It is a curtsey to adulthood, an encounter women of early 20s prone to experience.

But this frightens me not, no. I don’t take this as a gender-related threat.

As a dear friend kindly identify, I’m an adrenaline junkie.
Despite my consistent wailing on how unhappy I am with all sorts of trouble imposed on me, I like taking things to the extremes. I would love to play along.

Oh, is this proclivity to outwit men shall not be exclaimed loudly?
Is this supposed to be a secret?
Perhaps, perhaps. But I choose not to make it into one.

That’s why I’m calling this a fair play.



Salmons’ life follows a very specific purpose.

They are born near the river source,
Where their journey once starts and will too end.
They fed and fed and fed until they are grown,
Big enough and strong enough for their voyage to the sea.
Thus they swim freely, carried by the stream,
Out to the open sea.

There, they take into them all the goods things the sea can offer.,
The salt, the minerals, the sun!
Until they are tough and fertile enough,
To pursue their journey back home,
To the river they once belonged.

Against the streams they swim,
Upon the cascades they jump,
To the uphill they direct all their energy!
The longer stops they take the weaker they will be.

So they swam, swam, and swam
Until they reach the river where they were once born onto.
This time, they give offerings to the river
The females their womb and the male their sperms
Intricated, united by the water.

Done with giving ways to new lifes, they give up theirs
The purpose’s all done
Muscles are all strained, vivacity’s all drained
Their bodies floating down the river

Some end up in between the fangs of grizzly bears
Some find their way clamped by the beaks of the birds
Some are stranded on the river banks,
and stay that way for days and days and days
Until they have become one with the soil,
letting the goods from the sea immersed to the trees,
urging the greens grow taller than ever.


I think they led a very noble life.


She’s perfectly aware of the fact that everything’s ephemeral.

That trying to hold onto things only make it hurtful when the time has come.

Thus she learn not to keep.

And yet.


If only

there’s any way to cure this.

A Lesson from Samsa

Franz Kafka - The Metamorphosis(not at all a fancy cover. But no, don’t judge it yet)

This revives something I’ve always been experiencing all this time.

A thing I’ve been trying to bury lately, because it decayed me gradually.
It pains me so.
But Gregor Samsa teached me to embrace it all the more gracefully,
beautiful as it should’ve been.
Why didn’t I shift the lens I’m looking through? As a dear friend recently suggested.
Why should I be afraid of it?
Of the idea, that… for some amount of time my presence is needed,
but the next second my presence turns into plague for everyone around me
everyone that matters to me,
that there’s nothing left for me to do
other than step back cautiously,
stand still and let myself evaporates into the air?
Leaving nothing but memory
to those person who didn’t a wee bit realised
how much they’re changed by the momentary plague?
Thus, ‘metamorphosis’ doesn’t stand for my presence,
but for the state those whom I love are transformed into.

I shall now cry in liberating joy, no more in painful hollow.


MAUS by Art Spiegelman: To survive or not to survive

“The death of one man is a tragedy, the deaths of millions is statistic.”

— (allegedly) Joseph Stalin.

For the sake of brevity, let’s just say it’s Stalin’s.

Who would’ve thought Stalin’s infamous remark on genocide is actually an insight of our own human nature? Yes, we are as cold-hearted as Stalin, apparently. More often than not, some of us regard Holocaust as tragedy because we’re being told that it is a tragedy. That genocide is horrific and anyone initiating that should be condemned to hell. And so on, and so on. We’ve been agreeing so because we’ve been told to, not because we actually feel the grasp of how horrific it actually is. Well, no one’s to blame here. Not Stalin, not even Hitler, just our own human nature.

But Spiegelman’s MAUS is here to give us faces and names onto what we’ve known to be horrific only in numbers. Spiegelman not only successfully proves Stalin’s infamous “a death is tragedy, thousand of deaths is statistic” invalid. No, he reverses it. In this semi-autobiographical graphic novel, the survival of one individual is exactly why it’s a tragedy, and makes these fragments of story worth retelling.

Spiegelman poses as protagonist, tries to choke first-hand Holocaust story out of his father, a Jewish survivor.
Here, we’re being given a face that effectively renders the statistic once more into humanistic tragedy. Even more, the face we’re seeing here is not at all an ordinary one. Spiegelman’s father, Vladek, literally had witnessed it all–and escaped it all. From Sosnowiec to Auschwitz. From gas chamber to cremation pits.

Dead relatives was not an unfamiliar sight for him to see. Dead people was out of question of being extraordinary, indeed. Hunger lurks from every corner that he has no longer sense to eat normally. But that’s not all. As the reminiscent goes along, we eventually see another ‘gift’ from the war that Vladek has yet to carry.

In parallel with his father’s reminiscent, Spiegelman let us see how Vladek had turned into a harsh, bitter, anxiety-ridden character in life after war. Though leading an economically decent life, Vladek still refused to spill even the tiniest bit of food. When Vladek ran into supermarket in order to exchange a box of cereal leftovers with new one, Spiegelman was out of words. His life and body may have escaped the war. His soul, apparently, has not.

Spiegelman carefully maintain the flow in telling this two-sides of coin. He cleverly chose not to expose it all in one shot. Stories about Nazi in the first book, MAUS #1: A SURVIVOR’S TALE: MY FATHER BLEEDS HISTORY isn’t all that gripping. But the strained father-son relationship that’s extensively shown bugged me enough to think, this must leads to something. And the second book, MAUS #2: AND HERE MY TROUBLES BEGAN shows me why.

Spiegelman’s decision to depict involving races in animal representation is also laudably effective. Although told from the perspective of an individual, we hardly can ignore the bigger picture of racial politics that went on. Other than the obvious polarized parties, Jews as mouse and Germans as cat, there was also Poles taking role as war scavenger. Thus, Poles are portrayed as pigs. The symbolism perfectly shows how, in the time of crisis, human are reduced to rely on their beastly instinct.

Overally, beyond its perplexingly tangled motives, MAUS differs from other holocaust-retelling by questioning whether is it better ‘to survive physically yet mentally-wounded’ or ‘to die in your old sane self’. Who are we to answer? MAUS has sewn an irony of its own.