The weekly reminder from my Google Task app that I set to appear every Friday evening chimed with a chirpy ding, interrupted my daily doomscrolling.

“Upload Blog Post”

It was something that I established earlier when I was overtaken by the drive to “write more consistently”. Yet, it got ignored every single time, until the notification became something I tuned out of my mind after week 23 or so. “Publishing something” was the only indicator I could come up with, but no regards to my inner mental process, it’s nothing but an empty promise that I couldn’t keep to myself.

It’s been a while since I gave up on writing regularly.

My last proper piece was an introspective caption that I cooked up in commemoration of my birthday, a week ago.

It wasn’t something where I deliberately took time to sit down in front of my laptop, cracked my knuckles and thinking “yass, let’s write something profound to celebrate me turning 30.” If anything, the words found me. The muse touched me by the hand and guided my fingers to glide upon those touchpads, my back lying on the bed on a random Thursday night after work.

My creative lifeline is just random spikes of ideas appearing out of nowhere every other days or so. I would spend weeks not writing anything, and suddenly one day I’d have two thousand words in the palm of my hand, almost automatically, without hesitation nor self-doubt. They’re nothing too fancy, but I guess I just take pride in conjuring words so effortlessly, like I was naturally made for it.

Then the thought crept in, “why have I waited so long for this? Wouldn’t it be grand if I can create more of this? I have so many ideas anyway, maybe I can somehow do this more often.”

Maybe a list. Perhaps a “scheduled writing” of some sorts. Yet nothing sticks.

But it’s not like I haven’t been here before. If anything, it’s a cycle. Looks something like this:

Today I might be standing on either phase 2 or 3. Sometimes I’d skip 2 altogether.

I’ve tried doing regularly scheduled writing, trying to spare 10 to 15 minutes daily to “flex my writing muscles” or whatever. But so far nothing has worked better than letting the muse finds me whenever she feels like it.

Turns out planner and executor couldn’t share the same brain cells.

There’s actually no problem with my current writing process, at least within my role as a full-time worker of a job that has nothing to do with publishing. I’m just terribly anxious over the prospect of “being a writer with my current mental state” or whatever. I have a blog, which I don’t want to abandon (but keep forgetting that I technically have every couple months or so). Seems like I’m still under the impression that I’m not fully employed and need to hustle as a “professional writer”.

But sometimes I just feel like I’m undergoing something that I’d like to put in into words to archive it, to partake in persevering the minutes, to etch the experience into eternity.

Without the muscle to do so, I feel missing out on something precious. And I’ve been sore all over.

On most weekends I’d find myself burdened by guilt for not coming up with a “banger”, and Sundays are especially torture because I haven’t been “productive” towards my own passion before the workday inevitably rolls in.

Which begs the question, what am I trying to do with my writing? If it takes away the fun and the excitement, and instead strips me away of my lived experience?

Spending time with my friends, my partner, or my family. Even being by myself in my own room, organizing the cabinet, sweeping the floor, or staring at the ceiling without tasks from clients breathing down my neck. They’re all precious and necessary, yet I would forget their value in the contempt of my own (alleged) incompetence.

Perhaps I’m just a natural miser, being hard on myself for no reason.

I’ve got a good thing going now. Although not everything is rainbow and sunshine, I’ve gathered enough agency to be myself. I’ve developed as a member of society, a conforming individual with a whimsical side. Functional, for better or worse. What used to be a fear of mine is now just a regular Thursday at work.

For now, I will let inspiration finds me and write whenever my heart feels like it. I refuse to let an old half-baked identity take me away from the present and possible future.

Will I get rid of the Google reminder, I wonder?

Well, within my humble experiece, as a BA, my job is to ask questions and analyze the root cause of clients’ problems. On paper, this seems clear enough. I need to engage in a conversation with them and ask “why” constantly until I can address the so-called pain points, instead of jumping straight to offering solution.

Right now there’s been an ongoing initiative in my analyst department: to use AI as part of our workflow, particularly ChatGPT. Not just a simple “hey chat, write me presentation on project A for Director X“, or using it to replace Google, but actually embedding it into our daily operation. Instead of the old way of manual thinking — God forbid — using our own brain, we use GPT as an extension of our train of thought.

I wasn’t particularly a big fan of this, because I always liked to do my own thinking (notice the past tense there).

Admittedly, the concept itself is pretty good: for each project or initiative, we context-feed ChatGPT within the determined project space (like folders), using account designated for our department (to narrow context and set specific instructions), then it can use all the information to finish a task quickly, from complex stuff like conducting benchmark analysis, create documentations, or even as simple as making a pitch deck. And it can do so precisely within the project context, so no generic solution.

Since as analysts, we would need brainstorming a lot, and sometimes thinking by ourselves for too long can drive us down the rabbit hole, while the management had already been tapping their foot waiting for our deliverables. So we can talk to GPT as if discussing with a coworker. A highly efficient coworker who’s super willing to help, but you need to nudge them in the right direction.

But man, the execution…

Prompting and context are two particularly important keywords here. Prompts as the inputs we craft into the GPT to provide answer, while context is how narrow and specific to the situation it needs to be, so it can connect the correct dots.

The prompt needs to be specific and clear. And apparently it’s not as easy as it seems. It’s a craft between training it as if it’s human but using ‘instructional-style’ language: “Make me a sandwich”, “Think hard about this”. Confusing because I’m told to treat it as my coworker but that is not how I talk to them.

And then we need to clarify it back and forth to make sure everything we’re feeding it is correct. Fix its mistakes. Explain where they’re wrong. Craft and re-craft the prompt to make it specific, but don’t overshare like you do with your friends (again, confusing). Spend time to educate it.

Maybe that’s why teachers are the best prompters; they’re already skilled at the rules for prompt creation: specific, structured, able to simplify their language, and most importantly, have the patience. Which makes me rethink the whole idea of my parents thinking I’d make a good lecturer.

There have been instances where I almost want to cry and pull my hair out because it’s no longer about not knowing stuff. It’s quite literally trying to rewire my brain. I’m struggling to communicate with the uncanny valley of a machine, unlearning relying on nonverbal cues because you can’t crack a joke to get close to it. If it wasn’t for an actual workplace initiative, I’d just be better off doing the whole thing by myself.

Maybe it’s just making you highly aware of things that you used to take for granted in a conversation with actual people. Since within our daily communication, we usually share hidden rules and shared assumptions, and we don’t need to deconstruct everything to convey what we mean. Grice’s Maxims is a particularly interesting topic on this if you want to read more (Thanks Tom Scott).

I feel like playing that QWOP game, where walking is easy because you’re so used to it, but when you’re forced to do it in a limb-per-limb, muscle-per-muscle, and joint-per-joint, that’s too much.

This AI stuff (especially the Generative counterpart) really does evoke existential crisis, like not in a “we-are-meaningless” sense (there’s bits of it), but more about philosophically trying to deconstruct our way of thinking, ontologically and epistemologically.

I’m going to need to read some Derrida works.

All in all, yeah this is just me going on a tangent about my work. I find the whole concept of philosophical implications behind generative AI use more fascinating than how it can help with workflow optimization or whatever. I feel like this wouldn’t be the last human-take AI topic I tackle on my occasional ponderment.

The plus side of this bothersome practice of “comprehensive prompting” is that it sets clear boundaries for me. Because talking to it is exhausting work, there’s a sense that my relationship with ChatGPT is strictly professional.

Dipping my toes into it now, I still have the awareness for its strangeness. But over time, like work in general, I could be developing the habit for it and going on autopilot. What I really hope is that it doesn’t reduce my writing style into mere prompter flavor, thinking in bullet points and short sentences. Which is why I’m picking up my writing habits instead of rage quitting my work as I used to resort to.

And I need to face Monday again.

Due to a particular reason, I’m practically stuck at home this weekend— although, it’s not my home, per se, technically just a rented room. And I just realized… it’s been a while since I spend a whole weekend cooped up in my dorm room. Alone. Even so, I still have plenty options of recreational activities that I can do at home. But which one should I do then?

As I’m now expanding to other forms of pastimes activities, I’m constantly overcame with decision paralysis each weekend, because I’d have a hard time deciding whether to practice bass, zen doodling, watch movies, read books, journal my week, track my expenses, try out new recipes, or going out to hangout. Spoiler alert: Usually it’s the last one because I’d be too desperate to not be alone with my thoughts for too long.

I used to have only one defining hobby: writing. And I amplified the hell out of it. I thought I could be a writer. Writing was the only thing I could think of during my spare time. If it was my past self cooped up in this room today, she’d be having a field day; finishing the list of writing ideas she had compiled into a neat spreadsheet.

(Or maybe she’d not write anything, feel guilty by the end of the day and lament her inability to finish what she started. I’ve been with her too long to not see that coming.)

But nowadays, Writing isn’t even on the top 5 of my list. Hasn’t been for some time. On occasions, I’d pour my heart out in a paragraph or two on eventful days, but they’re no coherent writing nonetheless. If only Twitter still had a sliver sense of community and personal flair, that’s where those rants would go.

It could be that writing just doesn’t do it for me. Sometimes even a single rant-style post can take me 2 hours, and still it wouldn’t be a satisfactory piece. Then came chatGPT with its newfangled LLM technology, spitting hundreds of words, vividly providing a description of a hypothetical world, only in a single second. Without the baggage of emotional drain. I was flummoxed. Existential crisis ensued. If a machine can write better and faster than I ever could, what’s the point?

Writing used to be cathartic, but along the journey, because I didn’t have anything else, I turned it into a whole identity that I eventually burden myself with. I’d curse myself if I “waste” one weekend without updating my blog, because the brain would keep reprimanding itself “didn’t you say you want to be a writer?! Where’s the proof then!?”, which turned into a negative feedback loop. I couldn’t write because I was too burdened, when really, I didn’t have to prove anything to anyone. It was like being in a toxic relationship, yet you only have yourself to blame.

Thanks (?) to working a full-time job, I found a new structure and stuff to do, some sort of contribute-to-the-society-make-money scheme. Quite as tedious as it sounds.

It does made me drift away from writing. As I arrive home, energy low, I preferred to do things that do not require me “too much mental toll” and looking at monitors. So I do easier, more accessible things. Like doomscrolling. Zen doodling. On good days, maybe I’d practice a song or two on my bass guitar and join evening jamming sessions with a few of my co-workers. On weekends I go out and spend my hard-earned money on recreational expenses that every other working class indulge themselves in. A little treat. A little luxury. Or as they call it nowadays, self-reward.

Basically, as I find out that I can do things that are “more fun” (a.k.a I can just not worrying too much about being good at it), I prefer to do those other things.

But I know there’s a sense of dread and “something’s missing” along the way. In the hiatus of my writing, I don’t get to create to process. I don’t get to take a moment to breathe in and retrace my steps.

Even when there are (retrospectively) eventful moments, I just brushed it off like it wasn’t at all a highlight of my week. I joined a frickin’ band, something I’ve always wanted when I was a teenager, and I still haven’t written about it.

I know chatGPT ultimately cannot replace my self-expression, my frustration, my existential dread, my excitements, my sexual desires, and all the things that make me human. The real loss would be to lose touch with them. I write because there’s something exciting I want to share with the world. I write because I want to leave a small legacy, a dimple on the skin of society, in hope that someone may find it relatable and we can be silently connected.

I do miss writing, but I won’t make the same mistake of guilt-tripping myself into “being productive” in my writing, because if I want productivity, I’d resort to ChatGPT. And I know that’s definitely not at all what I intend to do with my creation.

Besides, someone on the internet already said it better: Why would I bother reading something no one was bothered enough to write?

Maybe I’m not well-suited to be a full-time writer yet, but right now I’m developing a healthier connection with this hobby that I’ve devoted a lot of time to since the dawn of my adolescence. I want to make it fun again. I want to make it mine again.

So yeah, maybe you’ll see me doing some other things, and maybe I can sometimes write about it, but in the meantime, wish me luck in the battle of reclaiming my attention span.

I’ll admit — I do miss writing. But I’m also aware how different my mental state is currently compared to my past times. I’ve been broken by the algorithm, and I’m trying to escape the matrix.

Honestly, how can one write if they lack the focus and brainpower to convey their thoughts? What if they don’t even know if they have thoughts at all? What’s the point in writing? If you don’t have any message to convey?

When your train of thoughts keep jumping from one point to another? Unable to conclude an idea before starting a new one, just to repeat the same pattern over again? When you forget many things you read or experience, so you’re left with little to no device on your thought arsenal?

And how can a writer not be a reader?

In the ongoing battle in reclaiming my attention span, I’ve tried many tips to basically reduce screen time and de-escalate my algorithmic complacency. Creating a “dopamine menu”, so to speak. Zen doodling. Journaling. Light workout. And of course the classic: picking up the habit of reading books again.

I’ve been reading. Yet, I’m still facing difficulties recalling books I’ve read recently. Perhaps not everything, but if you ask me the general idea or plot of Book A or Book B I claim to have read, I probably won’t know how to do it — or even have the willingness or focus to do so.

Which in itself, defeats the purpose of reading, right? To retain new knowledge. To broaden your horizon. To expand your mind. To empathize.

There’s this meme that has circulated around Tumblr:

Indicating you can — and it’s not unusual to — read a book and forget the general idea, yet still leaving a lasting impact on you (do I really suffer from short-term memory??). Your mindset. Your personality. And sometimes, a couple months following, on a random sunny day sipping coffee, the memory of that one particular subplot suddenly comes to mind. So maybe I shouldn’t be that harsh on myself. It’s the conditioned instant-gratification evil that spoke on my (evil) behalf.

And learning is naturally slow. You need time to immerse yourself in the world of the books. You need time to comprehend the words, the meaning, the implications, the nuances. And sometimes you have to hold the reading to attend to some more urgent matters, and you have to start it all again. Although the more you do it, the easier it will be the next time you pick up the book.

And sometimes, even after finishing it, you need to take the time to let the plot or ideas simmer in. To internalize it. And write about what you just read. The general outline. Your impression. Whatever.

I guess that’s why people write reviews. Or join a book club. Engaging in discussions and actively share their thoughts will retain information better than merely passively consuming contents.

I’ve written a review of a book that I thought was pretty great… and found out that the literature community collectively agreed on its problematic nature. I’d argue that I never found it to be ‘romanticizing’ the idea of abuse or something of that nature, but rather saw the ‘romanticizing’ lens as ‘the perspective of the victim’. A victim denying the horrid nature of her beloved partner, even after he did horrible things to her time and time again. An ugly situation that happens to a lot of people. Something that opened my eyes, as someone from a harmonious upbringing, to not immediately point fingers at a horrific situation and remark ‘hah, how can she be so dumb!’. Perhaps some more sensitivities can be applied to retell the delicate matters, but I didn’t really pay attention to the story language-wise.

I digress, of course, but my point was that even though that review was terrible, naive, or shallow, it was *my* piece. And even though I don’t necessarily remember everything happening in the book (in fact, I might be missing some crucial elements that most critics point out), taking the time to write about it and sharing it was something valuable to my experience in reading.

And that active experience adds weight to my memory. I’m retaining my impression of the books. And I remember it more than I remember the books I didn’t write reviews on. Others reading it is a bonus; I’m doing it for myself.

But I often think that — with my current attention span — my mistake lies in treating books the same way as content. I jump from one to another, without really giving them pre- and post- thoughts.

Books don’t scream for your attention. They lie there and stay dead until your mind gives them life. This passive-active dynamic between the device and human is flipped upside down in the modern algorithmic-driven default of consumption.

Jumping into books itself already requires effort. ‘Where was I?’ ‘What am I going to read?’ ‘Am I anticipating something?’ ‘Was something of significance happened before this paragraph?’. It’s tough, but someone’s gotta do it.

I need to write more book reviews. Taking my time after finishing a book to let it simmer before immediately jumping to another title, just because quantity is more visible than quality. Because a picture of a pile of books gets more likes and views than six-minutes-worth-read of long paragraphs. (I wanted to imply that I’m just an inefficient communicator– but then again, what does ‘efficiency’ matter in this grand scheme of enjoying things?)

But ultimately, I’d feel the value when I don’t stutter when someone asks me what I’ve been reading. What my thoughts are. So then we can discuss it and enter a meaningful, mindful conversation.

And it’d be so much better for my brain cells.

Where I borrow the term ‘algorithmic complacency’ from: Technology Connections’ YouTube Channel

Where I got my idea for “dopamine menu”: Irina Dee’s YouTube

I’m not sure what made you sort of come back, but I’m not really complaining.

Do you want to sit while I brew you a cup of tea? Or do you want to jump back into our usual shenanigans?

Oh. Oh, you’re doodling your hands again. Okay, then. Good. Straight to action, I guess.

Pray tell me, what is it exactly that makes you decide to pay us a visit again?

Was it the new book that makes you feel things after a long time of being lifeless?

Was it the new layout of the room; sort of a ‘feng shui’ thing that resonates with your inner energy?

Was it the brief online meeting session with former classmates that reminds you of your current state, and realizes you of the fact that everyone does struggle, and it’s only the beginning of another journey?

Was it the realization upon the shallowness of your closeted vanity, that it never really mattered much how you put on your everyday makeup or try to conceal your physical imperfection?

You would never be picture perfect. Not physical-wise. Not identity-wise.

It hits like raindrops on a March afternoon in Bandung. Sudden in nature, gradual in intensity.

It should never be about “being a writer”. It’s supposed to be “becoming one”. Because you’re never getting there.

Not until your first big project outshined all your impromptu blog posts. Not until at least one person feels the weight of your writing lift them up from their ordinary life.

But you should never strive for those things, because others’ reactions are not for you to control.

Just like a physicist should never strive for a Nobel prize. It should only be the byproduct of years of dedication, hard work, and a little bit of luck.

The journey should always come first, above all.

Progress.

The fact that you’re slowly accepting that it was not about impressions, fitting into a vain label, and limiting yourself into an ambitious identity you haven’t lived for, it humbles you. Paradoxically.

It’s the reflection in the mirror again. Your old friend. Your ever-existing muse. You wrote about her once, and now she makes you write again.

She’s a bit different now, but deep down you know she’s still the same person. You just kinda forgot to actually look at her. There. Head high. Eyes forward. What do you see?

Highlighted hair. Round face. Chubby cheeks. Small eyes. Big nose. Dry lips. Chin scarred with acne. Someone who finished her graduate degree from one major, and is currently having a job at a different type of expertise. Someone who feels lost. Someone who feels like she’s wasting away her potential, never chasing what she actually wants to do, never playing by her strength.

Wow. what a bleak image. Now I understand why you rarely glance at her again.

But so what if she’s not perfect? She’s you. And you are… you.

That’s a rhetorical question. Don’t answer that, because there are no answer for that. For you are never fitting in a box ever again.

And write like the curious child that you are.

I hope the doodles persist long enough on your hand to serve as a reminder for you of this day. The day you begin again.

Originally published at https://gray235.blogspot.com.

On a particular afternoon where I decided to pick up on my reading habit, I chose a random novel from the front page of “Popular Books” recommendation section.

Boy, was that a ride.

The story follows a female protagonist, Lily Bloom, who attempts to make a new life for herself in Boston. She quits her day job and realizes her dream of opening up a floral shop — parallelism to her name.

At first the story seemed very cliche and Mary sue-ish, where everything went great for the protagonist. She found the perfect first employee for her small business, which would become her best friend throughout the entire book. She met a guy on the rooftop of a building she visited to chill by herself, who would become her lover and husband through a series of compromises (mostly from the guy). Her business was blooming well (heh) without any significant problem, only that she had to “work really hard”, and at one point was featured in the local newspaper as the Best New Small Business or something.

But a unique and prominent feature in the story is the back-and-forth telling of her past through a diary which she wrote when she was a teenager. Teenage Lily had an encounter with a rather unfortunate school acquaintance, Atlas, when she saw the supposedly abandoned house next to hers was strangely lit with candlelight in one room. Atlas’s homelessness evoked Lily’s sympathy, where she proceeded to help him by giving him food and sneaking him to her house’s bathroom for occasional hygiene care. Over time, they began to care for each other more and more until they eventually fell in love.

A story as old as time.

But their teenage romance had to end when Atlas had to leave her to live with his uncle in Boston after months of togetherness. Now, Lily’s an adult who’s ready for a new life and new commitment… somewhat.

Everything seemed peachy and romance-y until I realized this book dealt with the sensitive issue of domestic violence and the intricate nature of abuse.

Lily’s diary entries were spread in between the events unfolding in Lily’s journey as a blooming (heh) businesswoman and her progress of romancing her current potential lover Ryle Kincaid. Amidst the main story between her and Atlas, there were mentions of her parents’… conflict (because ‘fight’ would imply equal power balance from both sides). Her dad getting mad if her mom parks in the driveway instead of the street, because it was reserved only for his car. Her dad hitting her mom after a disagreement turned sour. Her dad… almost sexually assaulting her mom because he accused her of flirting with another guy at the party they attended.

Through the lens of Lily — and us readers, the dad is honestly an all-around asshole. A two-dimensional, comically evil character. But he was never like that with anyone else, only to his wife. At one point of the story, he was depicted as just being a father to Lily. He complimented her on the cookies that she pretended to bake (when in reality it was Atlas, who happened to be a great cook, but had to stay hidden from her parents).

What I thought cliche and Mary Sue-ish was apparently a buildup for a subtler conflict hidden below the surface. Ryle was the perfect guy: a witty, charming, successful neurosurgeon, who came from a rich family. He fell in love with Lily so hard that he was willing to wait for her to be ready for him, when previously he had never wanted a committed relationship. He showered her with love and always tried to be available for her, amidst his tight schedule. He took initiative to tag along when she was meeting her mother, being a lovely company throughout the dinner and charming the sweet old lady up. He was a beast during intimacy, able to always pleasure her in more ways than one.

The perfect man.

But you know where I’m going with this. He wasn’t that perfect.

An incident happened which only lasted fifteen seconds to see him in a new light. Broken bits of casserole ceramics. Cut hand. Drunken laughter. Momentary rage. Lily got pushed and hit her forehead against the countertop. Regrets. And Ryle couldn’t stop apologizing. It was an accident, he’s not like my father. He’s loving, he cares about me, Lily thought.

To make matters complicated, she once again met Atlas, now as an owner of the fanciest restaurant in Boston, during a dinner event. When they met, he noticed the scars on her forehead and Ryle’s bandaged hand, and put two and two together. Not a good first impression.

After he almost fought with Ryle about it, he met with Lily at her office, and offered help if she needed to escape his abuse. Lily said no, because it was an accident, and she didn’t want to get involved with Atlas again since she and Ryle were happy together. He insisted by writing his phone number on a piece of paper and slipping it inside Lily’s phone battery, just in case she needed help, nothing more.

Then we, the readers, seem to be driven to forget about it when the stories develop again into that of a happy fairy-tale kind. Lily’s business blossomed even more, they moved in together to a fancy top-floor apartment in Boston with all the high-end furniture and two bathrooms, made them neighbors to Alyssa and her husband, they got married in Las Vegas, and things had just been going great for them.

That is, until Ryle found out about the hidden phone number inside her phone case. They got in another fight again and he accidentally pushed her down the stairs. Another scar, physically and mentally.

Also when Ryle found out about her journal full of her story with Atlas. When he realized that Lily still has a ‘Boston’ magnet from Atlas, that the heart tattoo on her neck that he loves to kiss so much was actually a reminiscence of Atlas, that her whole apartment was full of her memories of him. He blanked out and almost sexually assaulted her in a fit of rage and jealousy.

And that’s when she knows, it had ended.

The story ended well with her divorcing Ryle, because she had to make the right decision for their newly-born daughter, and ended up getting together with Atlas again.

This book does a great job in making me realize the complexity of humans, and of the situation where abuse might occur.

Sometimes when you hear stories of this happening to women, as an outsider of the relationship, you may be quick to judge “why didn’t she just leave him?”. It’s not that easy. Sometimes I subconsciously also have this thought. Of course, she has to leave, and there should be no justification for abuse to happen.

It’s the circumstances that make the decision to leave not that easy to be made, though. An accident at first, anger issue-ridden lashouts next, then it turned into a habit. A habit that isn’t always visible, because sometimes it just happens at the worst moments: a bad day, jealousy, drunken fit, whatever. Then you try your best to not provoke him in those moments. But the moment he laid his hands on you, a red flag should be raised inside you.

Of course, circumstances are different for every person. In this story, Ryle did have an internal issue stemming from a particular incident in his childhood, and Lily, despite the turmoil that they had gone through, still loved him wholeheartedly and wanted to help him overcome it.

But this is not something solely a good intention would immediately solve. You can get hurt trying to help, and the worst part is that it’s coming from someone you love. It’s not an easy decision, between a broken love and your self-worth.

This book changed me. Salutations for all the women who had survived the hardships, and managed to get out of the rut.

TL;DR: 7.5/10. Personally this opens up my eyes to the portrayal of the complex nature of relationship and abuse, although the story’s too ‘white’ for me. Language choice made it an easy to read, but heavy on the heart.

Originally published at https://incredibletay.substack.com.

Kalau kalian menyusuri jalan Dipati Ukur Bandung yang terkenal dengan kemacetannya di malam minggu, bertolak dari the infamous Simpang Dago, melewati deretan universitas UNIKOM dan ITHB, kalian akan menemui pool shuttle CitiTrans di sebelah kanan jalan. Tapi eitss yang mau kita lihat di seberangnya, undakan tangga besi curam berwarna hitam yang mengarah ke suatu pintu kaca di lantai atas outlet es krim Xiyue (yang bisa saja berubah franchise di bulan atau tahun depan, Bandung is that dynamic soal F&B).

Di depan pintu kaca tersebut, terdapat plang berwarna kuning menyala bertuliskan “The Room 19” yang bisa dilihat dari jalan, tapi hanya terlihat jika kalian cermat atau memang sedang mencarinya, karena bangunan ini terbilang minim secara space (baca: sempit).

The Room 19 merupakan perpustakaan independen yang berbasis komunitas. Namanya merupakan reference dari buku Doris Lessing berjudul To Room 19, yang menceritakan Susan Rawlings, seorang wanita di era Victoria yang berlangganan menyewa ruangan di suatu hotel (bernomor 19), dengan tujuan beristirahat, menjadi dirinya sendiri yang bebas dari kekangan societal role. Dengan kata lain, me time, before it was cool.

Intinya, The Room 19 ini dimaksudkan untuk menjadi suatu nest atau third place bagi khalayak, terutama mereka pecinta buku dan ketenangan hati.

Bandung memang selalu penuh dengan hal-hal baru, dan The Room 19 ini termasuk salah satunya. Meski baru berdiri satu tahun lalu, animo perpustakaan ini cukup besar, buktinya mereka sudah memiliki lebih dari sebelas ribu followers di Instagram. Aku sendiri sudah lama follow mereka di Instagram, bahkan sejak pengumuman pre-opening.

Untuk berkunjung, kita harus menaiki tangga yang curam dan sedikit berbahaya karena posisinya yang terletak langsung ke jalan (bukan tangga yang di dalam gedung), menaruh sepatu di rak yang tersedia di terasnya, dan memasuki pintu kaca. Kemudian kita akan disambut oleh staff yang berjaga di counter samping pintu. Dia bertanya apakah aku sudah booking, dan ketika aku menjawab iya, dia menjelaskan tata cara membaca buku di situ– memakai slipper in-room, meletakkan buku di troli setelah dibaca, tas ditaruh di loker, tidak boleh berisik, semacam itu.

Sistem kunjungannya adalah shift dan booking terlebih dahulu, yang namanya free flow package, jadi 35k (umum) atau 25k (pelajar) untuk berkunjung di salah satu di antara tiga shift tersedia — pagi, siang, atau sore-malam. Biaya itu untuk membaca di tempat selama kurang lebih 4 jam (yang tergantung jam shift), free access ke board game, card game, dan art supply yang mereka punya, juga termasuk free refill teh artisan (tehnya enak! Luv Sugus Jeruk). Kalau hanya ingin pinjam buku dibawa pulang juga bisa, skema dan biayanya beda lagi.

Aku tidak terlalu update dengan perpustakaan jaman sekarang ini, tapi citra “perpustakaan” buatku selalu identik dengan buku-buku yang usang pemberian yang sudah tidak dibaca pemilik aslinya, dan kertas-kertasnya selalu menguning. Tempatnya pun selalu kusam, terpojok, dan tidak menyenangkan. Apalagi perpustakaan sekolah negeri.

Kontras jauhh sekali dengan yang aku temui di Room 19 ini. Walaupun tempatnya kecil, penataan dan desain ruangannya oke, sehingga setiap sudutnya sangat instagrammable. Terdapat satu meja komunal berwarna putih bersih di tengah, dikelilingi rak terbuka penuh buku-buku yang ditata rapi dan tiga sofa hijau single-seat empuk, semua di bawah pencahayaan yang ciamik. Layaknya kafe, mereka juga menjual cake, pastry, serta kopi botolan yang terdapat di kulkas kecil dan display pastry super mini di atasnya.

Yang paling penting, buku-bukunya sangat up-to-date, lengkap dari buku impor maupun terbitan lokal, tertata baik dan semua masih dalam keadaan oke. And I’m talking about New York Times best-selling books, books that are updated in the booktok community, the front page of online bookstores, and books that I’m literally thinking about buying! Mungkin juga karena mereka memungut biaya, jadi lebih ada ruang untuk improve secara operasional serta independen secara kreatif.

Dan lagi, mereka sering melakukan kurasi buku secara berkala sesuai tema — “Critiques Against Capitalism” di Juli lalu, “Sastra Indonesia” di Bulan Agustus, serta “Banned Books” pada September kemarin, dan sekarang bulan Oktober, misteri dan horror! — sehingga menciptakan kesan tematik yang membuat kita tertarik membaca buku-buku yang di”hidang”kan dalam rentang waktu itu.

Selain buku, mereka juga secara berkala mengadakan acara komunitas. Seperti hosting game night, art class, diskusi literasi, atau diskusi komunitas. Which I think is great and so in-line with the spirit of a library, to be a central community glue. Sebenarnya untuk berkunjung ke sana pun tidak “wajib” membaca buku, bisa saja untuk bekerja atau belajar, asalkan tidak berisik. Yang penting bayar hehe.

Sudah beberapa kali aku berkunjung kesana, sekitar weekday siang, dan selalu ramai. Banyak yang bekerja di laptop masing-masing, ada yang membaca, ada juga yang hanya melihat-lihat koleksi buku sebelum meminjam untuk dibawa pulang. Ada juga yang bercakap-cakap dengan librarian-nya, atau bahkan main board game bersama teman-temannya.

Yang pasti, semua pengunjung menyempatkan diri mengabadikan momen berada di sana. Everything’s super instagrammable (I know, I hate that word too but somehow it evokes more positive meaning here). Whether it’s the assortment of books upon the light wood open-faced shelves under the warm glow of the yellow fluorescent light, the castleton green single-seat sofas by the corner of the room, the colorful sticky notes with charming doodles pasted here and there along the row of the communal table and the designated wall, the hanging origami papers, or a particularly interesting book they’re reading snapped against the blurred library ambience at the back.

Personally, menurutku empat jam saja tidak cukup untuk memenuhi hasrat di sana. The place makes you want to go back, and in a sense, it’s a very sustainable business model. Karena tidak seperti kafe yang kadang-kadang oh cukup tau aja, sebagai pecinta buku, there’s always books to read. Ada keinginan untuk membaca semua buku di perpustakaan itu, tapi tentu saja empat jam–bahkan sepertinya empat minggu– tidak akan cukup. You’d have to go back eventually.

Untuk deep work pun sangat aku rekomendasikan, karena kondusifitas tempatnya terjamin. Tidak perlu khawatir berisik, ketersediaan seat bisa konfirmasi dulu, dan no asap rokok atau vape yang sering tiba-tiba muncul dari bibir pengunjung tak tahu adat. Kecuali kalau kamu tipe orang yang wajib ngudud biar konsentrasi.

Kekurangannya terutama di tempatnya yang lumayan sempit, beserta tempat parkir yang juga super minimal (hanya bisa motor), dan itupun berbagi dengan outlet es krim di bawahnya. Selain itu, akses naiknya yang curam membuatnya berbahaya dan kurang inklusif. Although to some extent, I’d argue that it made the place even more charming in a way. Aku merasa seperti anggota organisasi rahasia yang memiliki secret nest, hidden in the plain sight of the hustle and bustle of the city center.

Some people lament that people don’t read that many books nowadays, tapi menurutku ramainya perpustakaan mengindikasikan sebaliknya. Mungkin mereka menyimpulkan demikian karena mengamati attention span anak muda yang berkurang atau maraknya hiburan yang dinilai tidak berguna. Tapi kurasa itu karena lebih mudah bagi platform sosmed menaikkan konten yang negatif dan juga menimbulkan komentar negatif, menciptakan feedback loop yang durjana agar pengguna tetap menghabiskan waktunya di internet. Padahal bukannya saat orang membaca buku, mereka tidak muncul dan teramati di internet, sehingga tidak bisa disandingkan dengan konten-konten negatif?

Kalau boleh jujur, sepertinya orang-orang malah semakin ingin membaca buku sekarang, terutama dengan meningkatnya awareness bahwa internet sekarang — terutama platform digital yang dikuasai korporasi besar yang hanya memperdulikan profit — really mess up our attention span.

I believe people still like to read books; we just need community and access. Terutama dengan harga buku cetak yang semakin mahal, perpustakaan bisa menjadi alternatif kita mengakses koleksi bacaan yang lebih luas dan terkurasi, sekaligus meningkatkan sense of community. Kita bisa bercakap-cakap dengan sesama pecinta buku, atau dengan librarian yang super helpful dan memberikan rekomendasi buku-buku terkini, atau info acara-acara komunitas terkait diseminasi literasi dan karya seni.

People go to cafes for a lot of different reasons, but at the library you know what people are there for.

TL;DR — Kalau kamu pecinta buku dan berkesempatan mengunjungi Bandung, cobalah mampir ke The Room 19 barang sekali. Tidak disponsori.

I get her. I get wanting to create something out of sadness, out of pain, just so I have something to show for it. Just so all those struggles are not in vain.

I understand the need for sadness to be justified.

If only I can write about all these years, I’d be able to finally move on from them.

But perhaps, sometimes, you don’t have to.

You just… move on. You just change.

You meet someone who makes you happy. You take the happy pills. And suddenly you can’t write it anymore.

“I need to go to a dark place… and I can’t get there.” The thought that you can only write when it’s dark and bleak.

But maybe, you don’t need to.

“When I’m with you, when we’re out, I feel good, I feel happy.” You meet a partner who’s loving and understanding and pulls you out of the misery ocean.

You end up finishing a manuscript of a feel-good, upbeat story about a food court girl detective. It’s fun and light. And people know that you have fun writing it.

But you beat yourself up over being unable to create a profound masterpiece. For settling as a “middle-grade” fiction writer (in your words). Mostly, for letting those bad things happened to you… for seemingly no reason.

How the hell do people write this kind of stuff?

This episode depicts perfectly the complex, highly relatable internal struggle of writing fueled by strong guilt-ridden emotion. It’s not just a linear, visible complaint of “ugh, I can’t write this thing”, but an appropriately visualized tangled mess of headspace.

With a train of thought that rushes far more quickly than fingers can type, suddenly branching, suddenly halting, suddenly catching up more speed.

Like a horse out of control, your hands barely gripping the reins. Distracted to no end.

But maybe it’s because your brain knows, deep down, that you don’t have to do it anymore. Accessing that emotional vault just so your ego can feed off more of your pain.

“You were having trouble writing this book when you were depressed, and you’re having trouble now that you’re not depressed. Is it possible that you just…”

“What? That I’m a shitty writer?”

“No… that you just don’t want to write this book.”

Maybe it’s okay with just… letting it go.

The TL;DR is that sometimes you want to write sad things so your sadness is justified, but you’ve actually changed into a “happier” person and that writing is no longer relevant and it’s okay.

I’ve been an avid Blogspot blogger since 2009.

It was a time of blissful ignorance and unapologetically cringe virtual existence. There was no ultimate goal to capitalize each and every content you put out on the internet.

In turn, my blog was also filled with the carefree diary-esque entries of a middle-school girl. I did not jump on the One Direction or Justin Bieber bandwagon back then, and was more of a nerd with closeted emo tendencies. So it was mostly just me complaining about homeworks or hyping the latest Linkin Park album. Sometimes I’d throw in a couple of short fiction I wrote on the spot as well.

All in all, it was practically my entire stream of consciousness, serving as a memento of my mental states along the years.

Blogspot has been a safe space for me. A dedicated little quirky corner for me and my antics in the vast realm of the internet.

But in the year 2024, I begin to internalize how much the online world has transformed. (A tad late, I know)

People don’t visit websites anymore, they open apps. And they develop ones, twos, and before you know it, you need an app to order food even if you’re eating at the place. But that’s a story for another day.

The most significant change I’ve felt is the gradual decline in my posts’ viewer count. Back in the day, the post could gain a hundred readers for my cryptic existential crisis rants. Now, I only have like six or seven views at best.

To be fair there could be many factors for this: perhaps it’s in the execution (inconsistent updates, boring and unevolved writing style), change of content consumption habit (people preferring visual social media over reading, mobile device over desktop screen), platform issue (outdated Blogspot domain and interface choice, Twitter no longer providing auto-widget for external blog post links — except Medium, weirdly enough?).

Maybe I’m just being a hypocrite for caring too much about viewers’ count, when I set off blogging to allegedly “showcasing my authentic self” and that it’s a form of “creative output for self-expression”.

But I’d like for the better of my ideas to find their place. Not isolated, tucked away in the dusty corner of my (virtual) bookshelf.

A community. A platform.

A Medium, if you will.

After ten years or so, I realize that it does kind of lonely being too long inside your own head. Of course I have the need to connect, to gain validation, and inspiration to keep writing.

Instead of just screaming into the void and get lost in my own echo chamber, maybe I can write somewhere there’s people to discuss with. A virtual cafe where my ideas can mingle with others. For my thoughts to develop and take shape into even better ones.

I’ve read many interesting pieces here on Medium.

Medium is great because of its no-bullshit, emphasized focus on writing. I don’t need to bother with the fuss of template design, blog layouts, or even worry about it not being mobile-friendly.

I just need to worry about my writing being relatively adequate, amidst the vast ocean of great contents here.

Cheers.