Home is where the heart is
A piece on nostalgia and growing apart
As someone who spent almost her entire life in Jakarta, it’s easy to feel lost amidst everyone speeding at rush hour.
On weekdays you’d see people on the commuter line or busses packed like sardines. Alongside the Ciliwung River, there are houses made of oxidized metal sheets and tarpaulins, while on the streets of Menteng, you’d wonder what these families do to afford huge houses that look like they could be museums.
Then on the weekends, you’d see people walking their dogs after pilates, eating an overpriced poke bowl, and drinking matcha around Kemang. We don’t have that many public spaces that are free and green, so people often walk around the GBK Arena or on the streets of Senayan only when they’re closed for the Car Free Day.
Whether you’re struggling with barely earning minimum wage, stuck in the middle class, or the top something percent of the population that earns too much money, everyone always seems so busy.
I’d say that my time and energy are mostly ripped off by the commute here. When you’re going by the commuter line at peak hours, you’d have to be mentally prepared for people who don’t want to give you space, especially when everyone is tired from work and sensitive. When you’re driving the car, the traffic is horrendous. Or when you’re riding the motorcycle, the weather can be so humid that the first thing you want to do when you get home is to shower.
But despite spending most of my life in Jakarta, just a 7-hour train ride from the city, Yogyakarta holds a special place in my heart.
Although I only spent about less than two years there, it was the city where I first lived alone, rode a motorcycle with a stranger, drove the car myself, had my heart broken, took care of myself when I was sick, walked to the hospital because my ear was swollen, passed my thesis defense, drove to the hills and the beach with my friends, and graduated from university.
I love how everything is closer by distance, that you can go to several different places on the same day and still feel like you have all the time in the world. You’d notice some food stalls open early in the morning and by noon they’re sold out, or some only open at noon and close at midnight. Then you’d see people who are passionate about what they do, selling homemade fritters or traditional drinks with a recipe passed on from their ancestors and people queuing long lines before they even open.
The pink sunset would always remind me of the time I’d walk by the hallways in between breaks during evening classes, or whenever I was on the way to coffee shops I’d never heard of for weekly meetings for whatever extracurricular I was in.
Whenever I come back, the first thing I do is set a date to meet my friends and catch up on life. It’s funny how even after graduating, we still enjoyed hanging by the campus to meet. We’d sit by benches at the park and talk while the wind blows, or take a short walk to look for places to eat. Being surrounded by them always made me feel like I teleported to the same age I first met them — a time when we were younger; we were still figuring out things then, but we still are now.
Conversations with them felt like I was home.
But it was just recently that I learned how sometimes, even when nothing bad happened, things don’t always feel the way they used to.
Whenever I return to Jakarta, I feel like I always need time to adjust.
To adjust my mindset again that the true luxury of life is time. That life isn’t merely about taking pride in late night shifts and feeling acknowledged only when someone knows where you work or where you graduated from, but it’s also about spending time with your loved ones and making days count without seeking other people’s validation just to feel content — to own your definition of contentment.
Maybe at one point, you thought you’d be best friends for life with someone, but here you are questioning yourself why meeting them after almost a year of not doing so felt like we were acquaintances trying to get to know each other all over again.
I remember when we used to have random nights where we’d send each other minute-long voice notes of life updates, either laughing or crying. But when we met, I ran out of topics for us to talk about even when we only saw each other briefly.
Maybe I started picking up signs that the new things I loved talking about no longer resonated with you, and somehow, it was difficult for me to ask more questions about the events you had, too.
I guess the changes that happened in between the time we weren’t actively a part of each other’s lives piled up to mold us into people with different values. Having differences isn’t always bad, but I couldn’t seem to bring back a past version of myself that could strike up a conversation with you for hours like I used to — not because I didn’t want to, but maybe because I just didn’t feel the need to anymore.
Maybe growing apart feels like an unspoken breakup.
I’ve had people I can think of off the top of my head who were significant characters at some point in my life but ended up growing apart. You know, the people you once shared details of your life with but for some reason, you’re now just another story viewer, but neither of you is reaching out. There’s no beef or anything, but once in a while, you’d think about what they’re up to now, but you also didn’t bother to ask them anyway, and neither did they.
The feeling of losing something will never not be upsetting. But this time, it’s not the kind of sadness you can or want to heal from, because nothing is broken, nor something needs to be fixed.
I guess now we’re just two people who used to be best friends, but now are growing into different definitions of life.
