...i'd follow you to the moon in the sky above...

Currently listening to: So Amazing - Stevie Wonder & Beyonce

.thetown.

Bunderan HI, Jalan Thamrin, Jakarta, Feb 2010

I can't even begin to tell you how immensely happy I am everytime I'm comfortably perched, safe and sound, inside the warm confines of my room, with a cup of steaming hot coffee by my side and classic The Corrs tracks playing softly on my iTunes. The rain is pouring heavily right outside my window as we speak, framing everything with its gloomy shade of grey. The bed is warm, the house is quiet, and the streets are empty. Lovely.

This is my idea of a personal heaven.

I remember feeling antsy, if not downright insecure, during my seven-hour flight from dear ol' Melbourne, worried I wouldn't be able to adjust, worried I wouldn't fit right back in once I touched down and got rightfully slapped with a hearty dose of reality. I guess I just had my own set of assumptions that hindered me from letting loose; I wasn't sure if everything would be okay, if for some reason things wouldn't feel the same way, somehow, because they have changed during my absence. My excitement was shrouded by little pangs of senseless doubt.

I think it had more to do with the fact that I wasn't sure if I could even remember that angry, misunderstood, overcompensating drama king of a kid who used to live here before fate - if such a concept even existed - decided to turn things over and send yours truly to fend for himself in the land of kangaroos, foul-tasting breakfast spread, and - regrettably - premature skin cancer. I could barely remember the chaos that used to be my life back then; how I so desperately tried, and screwed up, and failed miserably, and was then forced to repeat the vicious cycle all over again, right under the scrutiny of others around me.

I was a mess. A walking, breathing, screaming mess.

Maybe that was why I grew weary of my own less-than-shiny personal records and chickened out, unwilling to look back, to remember, to reminisce at first.

Now that I think about it, I had no idea what got into me.

Fast forward a couple of days, or fourteen, and now here I am. Comfortably settling in, albeit reluctant to let go, stubbornly, still. I've had my share of good days, and some awfully bad days too. I'd visited many of the memorable places I grew up in. I'd met some of the amazing people I shared my younger years with. It feels odd, almost sentimental, to realize that this cluttered mess of a metropolis holds a significant portion of my most treasured memories; the endless mall-trips, the compulsory talks-over-coffee sessions, the precious moments, and all the long traffic hours spent in between. Admittedly, the whole experience is sobering in its own way.

If there's one thing that I find repulsive about Jakarta, though, it's the fact that, regrettably, freedom is an absolute luxury around here. The paternal is neurotic and perpetually tense, while the maternal is sharp-tongued and excessively nosy, convinced that prodding her nose into other people's personal matters is a fully-justified right. I have become so guarded lately - overly cautious, even - but my all-smiling facade is wearing thin. I have now resorted to finding refuge in caffeine highs and fleeting moments of serotonin-induced emotional relief - namely, friends.

But I guess I really should stop complaining. Like always.

The last five days in particular had been bliss, absolutely divine, with the solid presence of a certain bespectacled hunkydory in a purple top, whose killer smiles and sappy sweetness have painted my days with multiple shades of happiness. I had never been happier, ever. It almost felt like I was living in a dream. And now that the clock has turned and the week is up, I don't know what I'm supposed to do with myself. I'm left with this giant gaping hole of nothingness.

In the pleasure of throwing in a vague, philosophically-inclined statement in between incoherent paragraphs, let me be less than modest here by saying that dreams only feel good because they cease to exist when we wake up.

More often than not - to quote a certain guitar-strumming Mayer bloke - when we dream, waking up is the hardest part, always so. It sure as hell is, especially when the dream we're dreaming is a giant build-up of all the things we're not allowed, or privileged enough, to call our own.

And what other purpose do our dreams serve if not to indulge our tired little souls with inane thoughts of what should and could have been?

I'm awake now. And the thought of knowing that cuts me open like a knife.

...Two full weeks to go.

The days are long. The clock's a-tickin'.

My last glimmer of hope is slowly losing streak.

And I hate that plane for taking you away.

Just when I was just beginning to feel again.

*waves*