A really short story (about darkness)

She thought she had found the torch that would guide her through this long dark cave. She had been lost in its never-ending maze for as long as she could remember. She didn’t even know how she got in there at the first place. It felt like by the time she could call back her memories, darkness and confusion were the only things that beckoned to her voice. She sometimes imagined times when there was more light and less confusion, but that time was no more than a short story; the one that she told herself to soothe her tears as she tried to sleep in the darkness.

She thought she had found the torch, a source of light after years of darkness. She thought wrong because no torch from outside would last long in her dark maze. She somehow knew that she had to create her own light within (within what exactly?) but failed to find out how. Oh, she thought, would it be just easier if she stopped trying? Who had heard of this dark maze of hers anyway? Did she exist before the dark maze? For she did not, what would be the point of trying to get out of this? But her glimpse of light, her soothing story, stopped her from giving up.

What was the story? It was when she had the others, when she had things to consider other than a dark endless maze. But they were so frail, so vague. Like a snowflake that melted as soon as it touched your hot skin. She remembered there were snowflakes. Or was that another story she invented in her muddled mind?

She thought the torch had found her. If that did happen, she lost it and was lost again. For now, it’s all darkness that was so thick she thought she would suffocate in it. How she longed for something else than darkness. But would that possible if she could not even trace any memories of non-darkness?

She knew that this was all in her head. It was not real (really?). And she would one day wake up in a bright room filled with the noises of early birds (would she?). And that life, whatever that meant, would resume its pace.

If only stories helped one found herself.

About silent treatment

Are you one of those people who will prefer to stay silent when you're upset with anyone? Yet, you have the ability to make your silence deafening, thus making whoever is on your list of silent wrath feels deeply uncomfortable.

I'm not one of those people. I'm actually the opposite. I will tell whomever that has pissed me off that they have, unfortunately, pissed me off for such and such reason(s). I don't "demand" apologies. A sincere one won't come after a demand. Anyway, I'm not the kind of person who will stay quiet if something is bothering me (which is why I have a blog).

What I think is the worst part of a silent treatment is that it is not silent at all. It is so loud that it penetrates my subconscious and gives new materials for my bad dream cycle. It's so disturbing that I can't ignore it. It's like you are waiting for something, and this something is likely going to be a bad news.

I know that some people choose to remain silent to avoid an argument, or to think that silence is a way to calm themselves before they have to say anything about the issue on the table. Perhaps that's true. I hope it's true. I hope it's not a way to mentally torture other people and kick them to the pit of guilt and shame.  

About drinking coffee again

I used to be a heavy coffee drinker. I would actually drink 4-5 cups a day, and they're always sweet and strong. I didn't use milk, because milk had always made me ill, even back when my lactose intolerance wasn't as bad as now. So, I used non-dairy creamer instead. Artificial. Good.

But then I stopped when my heartbeats were so mad in the afternoon after 2 or 3 cups, I thought my heart would burst. And my hands were starting to shake weirdly. That was in 2007. I didn't drink coffee after that. Maybe a sip or two if I was curious with all the sophisticated mixtures that the fancy cafes or coffee shops had from friends who were drinking them, but no more than that. I didn't even eat anything coffee-flavoured anymore. Instead, I drank tea. So much tea.

I met my boyfriend in 2013 and he drinks coffee regularly. And he likes Indonesian coffee (I mean, who doesn't?). So, he's more than excited when I visited and brought him two big bags of good Indonesian coffee. Sometimes, there would be a tiny bit of leftover from the coffee that my boyfriend made (or I made for him), and not wanting to waste good coffee, I would make a tiny cup for myself from the leftover. It was strange for my stomach at first, but then I got into the habit of sharing a pot with my boyfriend. Even when we ran out of Indonesian coffee and were forced to buy a local brand, I would still drink it together with him.

And now I'm back in Indonesia. Plenty of good coffee around with reasonable prices (don't try buying Indonesian coffee in Holland. It's ridiculous). So, now I have a new habit: making one tiny cup of coffee a day. It's not the coffee; it's the memory of sharing it.

Literary hangover

Just a quick note: I just finished The Bone Clocks by David Mitchell. This is not a review of the book, as I am not articulated enough to write what I feel about it. However, if you are looking for a review, I will recommend one from The NewYorker. It mirrors what I feel (although it hardly matters what I think about this novel).

What I want to write about is that dreadful feeling after I have finished reading a book, particularly a fat one, like this novel. It does feel like a bad hangover, after pints and pints and pints of beer. And cigarettes. It was nice at the pub, but when you woke up on your bed, your head wanted to explode. It is a bit similar with reading a novel, I found. The journey from page 1 to page end is (was) exciting, but after I closed the back cover, I felt something was lost. Luckily, I don't have a severe headache after I finish reading. But, there's that similar feeling of emptiness.

I don't actually know why I often, if not all the time, feel like this. I guess I subconsciously created some sort of attachment with the story, characters and the process of reading when I started. And when the book ends, the attachment is severed. And maybe, that's why I feel a bit lost and empty. After all, reading means you are investing your time and mind in one particular thing for a certain period of time.

To end this short ramble, I will recommend this book, because regardless of what the review says (see above), David Mitchell is still an amazing storyteller.