When I was a kid, I had thought a lot of things that I might be going to be when I grow up. I imagined myself becoming a doctor, having to cure the sick. I imagined myself become a teacher, teaching kids how to read and write. I imagined myself cooking in a high-class restaurant or hotel, serving a lot of guests as the main chef. I had imagined a lot of things back when I was still too innocent. Then suddenly, I found myself realizing that these where just figments of my imagination that was only attainable by physical labor. I ended up writing them for now.
Along the way, I have met a lot of people, there were few who stayed and there were many who just passed by. It’s enticing how people make choices and choose the wrong ones. There’s some who wants to become a teacher but ended up as a caregiver. There were others who want to become a stewardess and ended up a tourist guide. This world is practically round, and figuratively, confusing. It has the ability to give us wounds and leave scars in us. It’s just a matter of how we’re going to cure ourselves because no one will do that for us. It can play with your life, and all you have to do is to accept the misfortunes that it’ll give you. Well, I wish I won’t end up like this people—ending up with the choice that they never really wanted and regretted. I want to follow that path that I know I won’t doubt nor regret. I want to see what’s coming and believe that it’ll going to take me to somewhere I’d love to stay for a long time. I’d want to take the people who stayed with me as well, because honestly, they’ve been a great part of my journey.
The problem is that I still don’t have any fixed dream. Yes. I once wanted to become a doctor, but ended up disliking it because blood is part of the job. I wanted to become a teacher but hated it in the end because I saw how my former teachers tend to get mad every now and then. I mean, who would want to become a grumpy woman—an old maid at that. I am not so selfless to dedicate myself to children. I am not fond of kids anyway, and they do hate me. I felt empty then. It felt like I had no goal. I am walking. Yes. Or running rather, but I didn’t have any flag to reach or finish line to finish. It was all pointless—all those sleepless nights of reviewing to maintain my rank; all those lonely moments that I had to feel without any real friends just so I could be different from them. I didn’t want to, but I had taught that it was good to be. The funny part was that I ended up hating it. I hated the times when I couldn’t even share my thoughts as a kid to my classmates because I thought they won’t understand—that my way of thinking was way too different from them. It felt difficult to breathe in. Yes. I was too full of myself. I was a selfish brat.
In my six years in elementary, reality struck me like a lightning bolt at last! I remember that I was a fourth grader that time. I had this crazy but witty teacher. She always talked a lot. I tried to admire her—I swear I did. But then I just couldn’t make myself like someone whom my guts dislike in the first place. I didn’t hate her nor cursed her. I just dislike her. Well, she taught a lot of things to me—to us—which I think were definitely useful unlike the boring and stuffy things other teacher always tell. You know their life stories that weren’t even a part of the lesson. No one could stop them. They were teachers anyway. What could a barely ten-year-old kid do to stop them blubbering about their unsolicited story life? We were too young to know about our rights as kids of this nation. I am getting way too far from the main point, am I not? Well, okay, she became my teacher for a year or a couple? Honestly, I really don’t remember how long, but then I do remember this one moment when she talked to me. It was almost a sermon. I was there listening to her remarks about me in need to love Math so it would love me back—I guarantee you, I tried this method but it didn’t really work—but Math didn’t. I think I wasn’t really lovable, or that Math just lacks emotions. I prefer the latter. Back to the topic, I was sitting there—all ears, what a lucky woman! —almost looking like I was waiting for her to say the punch line. And then the punch line did really come. It came to me like a real punch leaving me bruises and scars after the entire torture. She told me that I wasn’t really smart. No, the word was a little bit harsher than that. She told me that I was dumb—stupid. I was the smartest among the most stupid. It does ring a bell, right? I was silently listening to her, only to hear her mockery. I got upset that time, but later on—after some years—I found out she was right. I was stupid, indeed.
I entered high school and found myself sinking below the ground. No perfect scores in quizzes or exams. The bad news was that I had my first failed grade, in my entire life, in my first year. The punch line was true after all. I should have known better. I wasn’t different or smart. I acknowledged that.
Stupid or smart, I still kept on moving—walking towards my no goal goal. Then, I found myself writing. I poured my thoughts into writing. I had my diary, scribbled my day into it and drew some sketches about the small things that made my day. It was like I was sharing a part of me into something and that something assured me that it can protect that piece of me. I felt secured then. I found comfort in writing. I ended up loving the simple utterance of words—whether they were simple or deep. I was so into it that I love discovering a new word through reading a novel or dictionary. It was like I was taking up a journey without facing the rough road or deep ocean—just sitting on my bed or in a corner; containing every word that story I was reading would throw at me and searching for an answer of what it really means. It was exciting! I thought I found a new dream.
I admire writers. I started to dream to become one. No. I definitely want to become one. I started with scratch. A few one shots here and some unfinished stories there. I had typos, misspelled words and incorrect grammars. I totally became a trash. My works were trashes—at least, for me. Even though I really couldn’t come up with a good one, I still tried—hoping I’d make a better plot. I was determined to improve. I believe that I will.
I saw reading as my good resort. It was like my cohort, where I could get some ideas or advice whenever I am in trouble.
Well, I was in trouble writing a good story. So, I ended up relying on experiences through the perspectives of those fictional characters. I sorted things out and then found myself creating a new character and a world where that character can only live. My dream became bigger. I was bewitched by that possibility that I choose that good choice—the right one. I hope and pray that I did.
I want to tangle each word into a knot and hope other people would try to untangle it by themselves like how I did with mine—solving the pieces that I let them see. I wish I did the good part.