Stories

When I was younger, I was pretty much a storyteller. I told stories in many ways: with words, with pictures, with poems. I've posted hundreds of stories on this blog since 2010 (even after I've disabled the identifications above the title, you still can track down the year and month it was written by seeing the dates on the url of each individual post). These past 3 years, I stopped. What stopped me? I don't know. Maybe I grow up. Maybe I no longer have as much time as before. Maybe I got bored for awhile but once I'm ready to come back it's already too late, or maybe, I'm just a coward.

I even think that I no longer can write as good as before. Way more than worse, to be honest.

I have my theories though.

First, as you know, I've only dated 3 guys so far. Before Agung, my romantic relationships (2011-2018) were almost always long distanced. Hours and hours of phone calls, texting, and lonely nights. Maybe, (just maybe) I needed to write everything down just to make it felt real and completed. Just to fully grasp and let it sink. I wrote it down to release all the emotions, so that it was not only my own. To give me some sort of agency, to feel in control. And actually, maybe I ever fell for somebody else(s) once or twice in-between days. Maybe I wrote it down so I could reach them through the universe. Maybe deep down I wanted them to read my story, maybe I wanted to share it with them.

One and a half year after Borneo days, ten years after my first date ever, I've got the chance to live close to my lover. I see him everyday, talk to him 24/7, and our story is real without having to be written.

Before 2019 (before the outbreak) I also kind of travel a lot.

Leaving home before turning fifteen, I've had the opportunity to walk on my own path, wear a lot of glasses, and see the real world out there. I wrote not only to record my journeys, but also because I had stories to tell--new stories in which I got to experience for the first time.

Wind is my element, maybe I've always loved going wherever life would take me. New places, new stories, new scenes.

First time. When was the last time you tried things for the first time? Which bring us to the third theory. Maybe it's been awhile since I had my last "first time", which is also kind of sad. Maybe when I was younger, I wrote things because it was very new and special to me. I had never felt that way before and I thought it was worth to share, to be told.

Have you ever watched so many good movies, and seen life with a new perspective for a long time until one day there were no more good movies to keep the scenery with you, and you wished you could see them for first time once again? It feels the same. You wish you know less than you now do. You wish you were still a naive person who would cherish everything for the first time. Over again.

Fourth, ever since I sold my digital camera, I have not taken as many pictures as before. I took pictures a lot with my phone, but I changed devices (phones and laptops) 7 times in 5 years and lost track of the archives. Maybe Borneo ruined that too, because I did not take proper pictures to tell my stories or write them down faster enough before I forgot most of them. Or maybe even after Bali (2018). Or maybe after Merbabu (2017).

Last one, maybe.. maybe I just felt ashamed. Ashamed of sharing my stories, exposing too much life to public. What if they cringe? What if I sound cheesy?

What if nobody cares?

.....

I want to write again. I want to feel the joy I used to feel when I write... again.

Where was I? Where were us? Where did we leave it the last time?

I feel like losing myself though. I want to go out there and travel again, take hundreds of picture and tell my stories. I want to meet people, exchanging thoughts and listen to their stories. I want to be present, but I want to be reflective too. Is there anybody I can talk to? Will you sit and talk with me? Will you walk with me and see the world? I wish I can hear the answer though, but maybe I just send it to the void once again. I don't know.