Stupidity Tak Pernah Mati

“I want to shut down my blog.”

“Why?”

“I just realize that there are a lot of brains that I’ve poisoned. Writer is like a prophet. Writer could never walk away after she writes something. She has to be responsible for the words she wrote and the impact to the brains she infected.”

“And how many minds you have opened?”

“Well… I fucked them up, okay? Don’t use smoother words. I. Just. Fucked. Them. Up. Period.”

“So, what was your intention to write in the first place, after all?”

“I just want to throw up, to yell, to unleash the anger into nothingness. I just want to write what I feel…”

“And feel what you write. Yada, yada, yada. Heard that shit before. Still you broadcast it in a fucking cyberspace called blog. And still you can’t help it when people love what you write. What do you say, then?”

“I just want them to know that I’m exist, a fucked up mind living and breathing somewhere, somehow. I just want them to understand that thinking what I am thinking is not against any laws. It is just different. There’s nothing wrong being different. They have friend in me. They’re not alone being weirdo, if that’s what they feel. I want them to read between the lines about how I manage to take writing as a therapy, as a device to, at least, make me feel as a balanced human being though I’m trying hard to keep my sanity. That’s it!”

“And still you nag about people who adore you for what you write? To hate people who feel grateful because you open their minds to another level of thinking? Who’s the baby now? Who is stomping her feet and pouting now?”

“But…”

“Look. Though I hate to admit it, but I’ve got a confession to make: I love your writings. You could see things from a point where I could not. Damn, girl! I am an architect. I draw. I could make a painting of a naked woman just like that, and the picture will stay the same no matter you look at it now or five years later. But you… You ‘draw’ the naked woman with your words, with the punch of the keyboard, with imagination and energy you pour down to the tip of your fingers. It’s different. It takes extra effort and more senses to work on. I admire you for that.”

“Dammit. I don’t even think that way. I just think we both work in different areas. That’s all.”

“But we’re the same! We, people who work with senses, need the moods to materialize the concept into something. We are still learning to control it because sometimes it feels too fucking much. Perhaps what had happened to you is exactly the same with what I had experienced few months ago. I am still learning here, the same as you are. I work with images and pictures. You work with words. That’s the way it is.”

“But it’s kind of awkward to see how people know me through my writings, to find out that they know how I think from the entries I wrote, and get praised from it. It’s… weird.”

“Have you thought about this the first time you made your entry? Have it ever crossed your mind that perhaps somebody get his or her enlightenment after reading your shits?”

“No.”

“So, return to the basic, then. Try finding out what your intention in writing. Dig it deeply to the core.”

“I just want to write.”

“Go ahead, then! Write! Fuck people who read! Life is full of choices. If they happen to choose reading your blog, it’s their own decision. Not yours. If they happen to love what they’ve read, again, it’s their choice. You don’t rule over people’s minds. You rule over your own.”

“So?”

“Move from where you sit if you don’t like what you see. Make them and yourself comfortable. It’s a matter of choosing. See everything with the smile on your face. This is your next step in learning. You are leveling up by things you’ve thrown up. Don’t quit the purity of your fucked up mind. If there is ‘market’ you want to satisfy, learn to do it. But you have to remember the most important thing: Just be yourself.”

“Do you want me to hug you for this?”

“And stink my cool jacket here? I think you could skip that.”


[just an encrypt from one long conversation in the wee hour of the night with one helluva guy who was just escaping the inevitably gross fate should he did not stuck with me in an angkringan until dawn. how come we always find relations in the stories we shared though it’s been centuries since we last met? funny how an angel comes in red-black rider jacket, leather gloves, and rides a big red motorbike. I always miss you this way, Bro]