(b. Jakarta, 1996)

For the first and last time. Writing becomes the meaning of an emotion, an event, a memory, and remembrance. Second by second, like a metaphor to a continuous apology. An anthology of stories wrapped within twenty-four hours a day. Trying to find yet another way to learn an atmosphere. Orienting oneself, and learning how to orient again. Growing up is the rotation of time, like the turning arm of a father’s wristwatch, or the rotation of a massive rock around the morning star. This is a first attempt to turn everything into a story.

I was taught to listen better than to speak. I understand, to some extent, what that means. To be lulled into the game of turning thoughts into words. Words that unravel into equations of meaning. Justice for the information that circulates; that is produced or cultivated (archived).

The process of learning has quite a lot of obstacles. Especially from the inner self that romanticizes the meaning of love—so sincere that nothing can surpass it. An inner self yearning for balance between the world and its opposite—unable to divide whether the world is or is not, material or otherwise—where mistakes become the primary teacher. Through systems of comfort and discomfort.

The resistance of time itself. Persistently pressing forward.