The Photograph

This afternoon, I was rearranging my stuffs when I found some photo albums. When I grabbed one and took a look at it, apparently, it contains tons of photos when I was like four or five years old. I looked into how I was when I was a child, who is a lot cuter than how I am now. 

I am not good at remembering things; through these photos, however, I could clearly recall all the occasions. They are when I was in my 5th birthday, when my family and I were on vacation somewhere in Lembang, and so many more occasions. God, I remembered the time and felt the state of having a real and normal family. 

I took another photo album; it contains some photos when I was around seven. I was with my cousin to whom I had a fling—kinda stupid. It was familial love—like the forbidden love story in some of the Greek mythologies. That photo took my mind into that very day; it was in late afternoon when I came home from madrasah with her, and some of my other friends. At that time, I knew that my friend liked her, but I did not care about him; because I thought she liked me too—which I never find out the truth. What a load of craps.

I was so happy.

I feel so bad knowing the fact that I was, indeed, a lot happier than I am. Suddenly, I realize that I—and maybe most people—keep almost all the good memories in the form of this two-dimensional image—which eventually ended up in the warehouse.

or sometimes they are simply missing.

I never take any photograph when I am throwing rubbish, or get accident, or something terrible. In fact, I keep them and all of my bad memories in the form of images somewhere in my three-dimensional brain. That is why I sometimes get depressed; it is because what come up in my mind frequently are my bad memories, my childhood trauma, the time when I was bullied, and all what I think life has taken from me.

For so many years back, I was more comfortable being in noisy and crowded place because I was afraid that some bad memories just struck me any time when my mind is vacant. The worse thing is that I cannot cry. Well, sometimes I am proud that I have the quality of a real man—who never drops any tears since the birth. Anyway, there is a time when I simply need to cry. Indeed, crying cannot make any difference, but my eyes are like the dark cloud that needs to release its particles. 

its burden

This year—thanks God—I can control my own feeling through some meditations and self-reflection. I still cannot cry unless I watch a very touching movie--which is better than not-cry-at-all.

I, moreover, stand up to face any my worst nightmares that may come up anytime by being still and quiet. Sometimes I win, sometimes I lose; I do not know when this battle will end.