Most people afraid of death. Other poeple afraid of being powerless. Another people afraid of being loveless.
So many thing to be afraid of. And me, of course, also have my own fear. Like, how I hate chicken (a real-alive-I-could-attack-you-with-my-sharp-beak chicken) or how I would freak out if I’m losing my control. But the thing that I feared the most is to be nothing.
No, I’m not afraid to be nobody, cause they say nobody is perfect, and how I really, really love to be perfect. So no, I’m not afraid of being nobody. I am afraid of being nothing.
Nothing. Not a thing. I cannot do a thing. Existenceless. Dissapeared beneath the mass of people who swarm around in circles to prove that they are something. That they are alive.
And I’m afraid of my own existence.
I met many people this past few months of my terminal holiday, mostly my old friends in schools I’ve attended, mostly people my age. My age. That’s the problem.
When I celebrated my 21st birthday at September 1st, this thought hit me hard and fast again. I have around 4 other people in my study year who also celebrated their birthday at September 1st. Most of them were celebrating their 19th birthday. And I am 21st. And they say that I am old.
Not that being accused as old that feels like stabbed me right in my gut, I know they’re just joking around me and I didn’t let it shake me. It just that this realization that told me I would become nothing. I’m too old to be something. I would just rot in my place, trying hard to chase everyone on my level and would never succees somehow.
My friend told me I’m late, and I know it’s true. Here I am, rotting in my sophomore year of college while all of my old schools’ friends are busy with their thesis on senior year. I realize that I am (very) late at entering college, but I always suggest to myself that somehow I would chase them and finally could be on their level again–no, on our level again. But with me turning 21 couple days ago, I start to fear that maybe, whatever I do, no matter how hard I try, the same level I yearn–the ‘finally caught you!’ moment I dreamt–would never get me.
And that’s true, though. No matter how fast I run with my subjects at college, the fact that all of my school’s friends are going to be long gone when I finally graduated would be inevitable. All of them would flap their wings and fly away into another sky, while I could only stare at their retreating tails and wished I never need to postpone my college just because of those freaking high-priced college fund!
They would be something. And I feared once again that I would be nothing.
All of my old friends could easily talking about taking a master scholarship overseas, while what I could talk is just how to damn increase my GPA so I could talk about my master faster. All of my friends would excited about their internship while I just satisfied myself to get excited over some new classes that opened in the next semester.
They would leave, and this mud still glued me to the ground.
I wouldn’t self-defend myself to say that I’m grateful. I’m not. Because when I’m grateful, it means there’d be no ‘but’ etched on my last sentence. And while I’m happy to finally entering college, to finally study again, to finally know something new again, to finally could stop worried about paying those high-priced funds and books and school supplies, to finally be around books and libraries again, I still wished that I could somehow feel this happiness two years earlier, together with my friends, be on my level and maybe even beyond that–and I know I would work my hardest to be beyond. There is ‘but’ in my heart, always. And that’s mean I’m not grateful of all this.
I’m sorry, my mighty God, but I’m not grateful of your love to me. I am just like one of your other human creature who whished there’ll be more for them. I need more, my God. I’m not grateful.
Maybe I would just shut off from my old friends for awhile. I need to straighten my mind again and their prescense isn’t a good welcome for my current state. Maybe I shouldn’t talk to my sophomore year mate either, for seeing them made me self-conscious about my age, about being nothing.
But could I be something?
P.s: I really need to bitch about something, just to erase this melancholic aura around me which I hate the most.
P.s.s: The next thing I need is a cutter to cut my wrist off and I will officially be an emo. Grah, annoying.
P.s.s.s: This post is random. I write something random when I depressed, and that’s another caution for you who actually read my blog and think that maybe I will write something useful. No, I just rant, bitching when my mood high, and being random when I depressed, so that’ll be the majority of my blog.
P.s.s.s.s: Sometimes I would write in English when I talk about my feelings. Because I just plainly hate being sappy in Indonesian. I don’t like being weak with my mother language. Or being harsh with my mother language. I honor it enough to not using it for bad intention. But I will write in Indonesian for my normal posts.
P.s.s.s.s.s: And please, people, don’t cheer me up, okay? I hate those fucking formal fake consideration people always use for the sake of conformities. Don’t tell me anything unless that’s come from your heart, not dictated from society.
Okay, to many ‘s’ rolling around. Gee, how better it feels after bithcing some. I’m just off now.