On July 1st, 2015, I started to finally work full-time. I now mostly, barring the odd weekend, live in Jakarta, the capital city slash hell hole that has ensnared many of my friends with promises of prosperity. It now has its claws sunk in me too. For the sake of a steady income, I now bear the traffic, the commute, the crowd, the heat, and the feeling of absolute loneliness that comes with walking among fellow zombies in the morning.

Bandung, cool weather notwithstanding, is a warm city in the metaphorical sense. Jakarta is the opposite. Jakarta does not care for you; you are merely one in millions. You are not unique or precious or loved in Jakarta. It is gilded by tall buildings and luxurious malls, but try having an afternoon stroll on its streets and feel regret as soon as one of its notorious buses spray smoke to your face.

The work itself is fine. Really. That is the adjective I’m going to use, because there are days when it feels too easy to be true but then soon after are days when I’m in over my head. But in average, it is fine. I am not blissfully happy the way I was when I was studying French, but neither am I in the pits of despair, other than the first few weeks when I was still getting used to things.

I gained eight kilograms. I’m not sure if it’s the work, the city, or the medication. Perhaps all three.

I stopped writing. Now that, that I am sure is all on this city. It sucks the soul out of me. My parents told me to hold on to good days and keep them as my Patronus. That is seriously what they said: Patronus. I love my parents, but they don’t seem to realize that a Patronus charm is a NEWT-level charm and I never went to Hogwarts.

I don’t really know where this post is going, to be honest. I just want to write something, anything.

Kind of the way I want to write something for NaNoWriMo, which is in less than two weeks away, except I don’t know what to write.

Whatever.

It’s three months going on four since I started working, and I’m still alive. That’s something, isn’t it?

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