Category : Diary/Journal

Sub Category : N/A

Departure Gate, Kualanamu Airport, Medan, North Sumatra

my hands shake too much, for someone who makes a living out of detailed illustration. my eyesight is going, too, at the ridiculous age of seventeen. i have terrible hearing for someone my age, let alone a musician- but here i am. and i'm much too lawless,  too much of a delinquent, too lewd, too much of a stereotypical bad-girl, too adverse to authority to be a teacher- but again, here i am.
sometimes, childishly, i think bitterly that the universe is playing a cruel joke on me. that the world is against me and my own body is trying to sabotage me in all my endeavors. and, fuck, it might well be. 
sometimes i allow myself to wallow in self-pity.
but what a world of good will that do me, right?
crying about how the nerves of my hands are wrecked won't make me any better at drawing straight lines, and whining about my shit hearing won't magically heal my ears. 
"spinne, why don't you just do something else? you'd do great in social sciences."
and what, give up just like that? nuh-uh, pal. that would be a white flag. that would be my ass up in the air waiting to get fucked. that would be surrendering, and you know i'd rather have my own damn ears, eyeballs, AND fingernails ripped off and fed to me before i surrender to anything. that's also a failing of mine, i think. i'm too fucking stubborn for my own good.
so fuck it. fuck me. fuck you, wrecked nerves and crap ears and old ass eyes. fuck you, broken bones that healed wrong and still ache. fuck you, crushed ankle that made me quit gymnastics and ballet. fuck you, universe, if you're doing all this shit on purpose. go fuck yourself in the ass with a baseball bat.
fuck you if you thought for a second that i'd give up.
i'm going to show you all who's boss.



Arrival Terminal, Soekarno-Hatta Airport, Jakarta, West Java.

despite all this, my paintings still sell. i can't play but i can compose, even if i can't hear too well what i composed. i'm not a model citizen but there are children in these schools who feel misunderstood, who are labelled problem children, delinquents, rebels, who don't know how to tell their parents that this is not what they want- there are children in whom i see my younger self too much, and who (with the grace of all the gods) now find a sanctuary in me. there are disheartened and injured and disadvantaged dancers, gymnasts, artists, musicians, whatever the fuck else who can feel a little less alone, who can rest assured that this is not the end of their lives and careers. 
if this is the price i pay for the bettering of these lives and the comfort of these souls, then it is a price well paid.

above all, i am grateful.