Monologue on Giving Up
To be able to try is a privilege.
Some people don’t even have a chance to try, let alone to get. At least I have had that kind of chance, and that sort of privilege. I tried. I chose to try. And, not least importantly, I was totally supported – by family, lover, friends, etc. – to try.
This privilege contains many other things life has kindly given me. Great mom, great lover, great brother & sister, great friends, good fortunes, nice coincidences, and else. They all have provided me, essentially, with time (to try) and little savings (to ‘buy’ that time). But, there is always but, no? I have tried, but I seemingly haven’t reached the point I imagined in the beginning. Money runs out, time’s up. It’s time to give it up.
But, I have tried. And, it should always be okay to quit after you try. I think. I’ve done the trying, yet I have to learn the quitting. It’s not always easy to quit. Yet every champion learns how to quit once or twice in her/his lifetime. People are trying, people are quitting.
Monologue on Praying (or not)
What is prayer, anyway?
Is it a kind of words we spell for miracles, or hopes, or something we are no longer capable of doing? When we pray, who are we telling to? Some sort of magical/superior thing, or to ourselves, or to a universe, or to whom?
“Please pray for blah-blah-blah.” I heard it so many times these days and I’ve start to take it as a cliché. I cannot take it very seriously now, as I do not know who to believe, or whom to pray to, or whom I should telling my problems and hopes and dreams to. What is god, anyway? Or, more precisely, what are gods? Are they there listening to the prayers of humans, who are no longer able to hope, to do, to try, to see, to breath, to listen, to xxx?
Recently I prayed with no words. I prayed with all my bodies and souls. The prayers I told were not in the form of sentences. There were no grammars. There were no structures. No words. No letters. No intentions. No directions. But, I prayed. At least, that’s what I think. Perhaps this is a kind of prayer which hopeless and helpless. Still I prayed, anyway.
I don’t know why. Words may fail. So I no longer able to pray with words. If the body-prayer fails me too, I don’t know through which form I should pray.
Perhaps I should stop praying at all?
Monologue on a Death of a Friend
After a Saturday night dinner at Sagan, I came back to Wedomartani. I chilled on the bed and read the Whatsapp message, telling that my good friend has just passed away. It was so sudden. She was hit by a truck in her hometown of Kampala, Uganda. I was shocked. So do other friends in many corners of the world.
How can a death of a friend that is no longer physically close to you can be so unbearable? I mean, if we were still living in the same city and met quite regularly, then such a sudden death must logically be very painful. Yet we are already separated, living each separate life in each separate city. But, then, death has come and separate us even more. How do we actually measure distance, proximity, and (non)existence?
To console myself from the sadness and questions hanging uneasily in my head, I drove to the coast in the south. A death of a friend has apparently brought me to familiar things which I previously don’t know I miss. The scene along the way: rice field, long asphalt road ahead, smell of the sea, life so mundane that we barely think of, all the good things life has provided us but we are too busy to look for something else (something abstract, a concept).
At the beach, I found my spot to reflect. I ate my lunch and I gazed at the ocean. Across that ocean is Africa. A friend has died there yesterday. In a continent I’ve always dreamed to go to. She once encouraged us to save money to visit her in Uganda. She said she will fix all other things. We only need two-ways flight ticket. Yet, death has come.
And what has already been separated are separated even more.