I found myself facing the same view again: a bed of hypnotising trees, an old building, several new buildings, a crane, a dimmed sunlight, and oh, a herd of black clouds. I just came back from hanging around with my friends downstairs, sipping discounted tasteless coffee (I hate coffee, they make me sleepy), and watching them puffing smokes from their restless mouths. They were talking about this planned surfing trip tomorrow in which I couldn’t go because it’s my mom’s birthday and I must be around. It’s funny how simple and redo-able things like that can drive me insane. Fear of missing out, fear of regret, fear of being bored, fear of loneliness. I will be walking around my neighborhood looking for weird posters and stickers tomorrow while my friends are exploring waterfalls, and I should force myself to be happy with my skateboard while my friends surf around the coast of Java.
Boredom tastes like a bitter cancerous pill that has to be shoved down your throat. I started to question myself about the origin of this extreme need of travelling. Is it because the only reachable nature is this pack of trees in the parking lot? “But you like those concrete walls! Think about those street arts and quirky stickers!” argued the other person who lives inside my head. Well, if I hated those lovely works, I would move to Bali with my best friend six months ago.
I started to see patterns in my day-to-day life. I go swimming every Monday, beer with friends on Tuesday, Muay Thai on Wednesday, I usually go swimming again on Thursday, and home early on Friday. On a lighter note, I started to see a faint muscle line in my abdomen. However, this lead me to another question to myself: am I started to become one of those people? Those people, those who have short goals and force themselves to be happy with monthly salary and planned leaves. What happened to my lifelong dream to be free? Is this freedom? Why do I feel chained to this restless, endless, loop of routine?
I know for sure that whatever it is that I’m doing right now is bad to my mental health. Is this part of the reasons why I have depression? I love seeing kids running around in the alley near my house. I miss running around. I miss thinking that being an astronaut is as easy as drawing one. I miss jotting down possibilities. I miss not having to ‘think realistically’. I miss doodling in math class. I miss not having to overthink everything. I miss having feelings. I miss not to feel at all.
I know for sure that an hour from now I’ll be walking away from this office building, watching city lights started to light up, buying some pastries for my midnight snack, seeing some coffee sellers biking from one spot to another spot, waiting for my ride home, get on a motorcycle, sitting on the backseat, observing the traffic, watching people, passing that little Venice looking slum, seeing that old tailor doing his job next to a dirty river while his wife is busy making tea behind him, oh I will also see the contemplating man (basically a guy who loves to stare blankly while swinging on a children’s swing not far from the old tailor works), and I will definitely say to myself to take a picture of these people or write something about them in my journal before it’s too late only to forget about it when I got home because I’m too tired and the only thing that I want to do is to drench myself in a warm shower, hug my dogs, and snuggle under my red blanket.
And I’ll do that again on Monday after my swimming session because tomorrow is my scheduled day off, something that I’m proud about. And on Tuesday. Wednesday. Thursday. Friday. Fuck me. This needs to stop.
I’d like to know whether these people that I pass by everyday started to notice me. The person with thick giant glasses on a public motorcycle transport. Maybe not. I’m not that memorable. I’d like to know if people around me feel the same about this endless loop of routine. I’d like to know where does the old tailor go when he’s not around. I almost cry while I’m writing this, but if I have to do this routine again a month from now, I’d rather hang myself to death.
My friend told me I need someone to talk. To vent. I think I’m a pro at handling loneliness, since I was born to be a loner. I’m an only child. I’ve always been alone. Heck, I love being alone. I love locking myself in the only private bathroom in my office just to recharge. I think I don’t need anyone to talk to. I have myself. I have you! An electronic device that I can use to write and to entertain me. I have my pen and paper to draw. But then again, what do I need to vent about? My boredom of this routine? I expect anyone who read this (if there’s any, I doubt it) to think that I’m just a typical millennial on a mid-youth crisis looking for self-identity, and I expect you to say “It’s called life, you privileged asshole. There are people dying and you’re complaining about a routine that you chose to do”.
Sometimes, I feel like I need to be punched in the face.
Or a weekend gateway. Just like those people 🙂