I really dislike writing self-reflective pieces or personal monologues, especially if other people can read them. But here I am, compelled by some sudden urge to document what feels like watching a door close on something I never knew I had.

I’ve never been good at marking time, but some numbers stick. One of them is 27. There’s something almost mythical about that age, the age when life supposedly demands big decisions. And as of today, I can no longer join the 27 club. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not. Well, first I’m not a famous musician nor a great actor. So if I had died yesterday, I don’t think anyone would put my name on the list.

Do I want my name to be on the list? I don’t know. I no longer have those scary thoughts of ending my life, but I constantly feel like it would be nice if I could disappear from this world and never come back. No violence, no drama, just… fade away, like smoke dissipating into thin air.

Exactly a week ago, I suddenly remembered about this book that I would say describes my 27. A poetry book that I found at a small independent bookstore in Pasar Santa, Jakarta. It was love at first sight. I bought the book right away.

It was one in the morning when I retrieved the book from my container box containing my personal—not so important—stuff. I spent a full three minutes staring at the cover, transfixed. A simple drawing and text. It depicts a man sitting in a bar or cafe, right arm resting on the table, left arm cradling his head, looking profoundly stressed. For some inexplicable reason, I could utterly relate to this solitary figure. Then I began reading the title, slowly: “Visions of Mundane Madness.” Yup, that’s it. I would describe my 27 as precisely that: visions of mundane madness.

During this time I was dealing with some bad stuff. A lot with stagnation, zero progress, no actions, decision fatigue, and analysis paralysis, to name a few. I feel like I was walking in the same place this whole time. And for me, that’s worse than failure.

The first half of my 27 was filled with internal fear, self-doubt, excessive comparison, and constantly feeling like a failure. I was ashamed of myself, to say the least. The second half was filled with self-loathing, making mistakes that jeopardized my friendships, digging up useless past mistakes, too much isolation, and endless ruminating on where it went wrong.

I feel like the progress that I made over the past three years just vanished in the span of one year, especially in the financial and career departments. I was bleeding chips, and I needed a way out. Fast! But it never happened. Somehow all opportunity doors were closed, leaving me sitting alone in a dark, cold place.

Did I actually make progress? Yes, probably. But it was not enough. It was never enough. I need more because I know I can do more. But—I feel like—I never put in the work to achieve that.

Do I think it’s getting better? Hard to say. But it’s getting there. Sloowwwwly. Sometimes it’s frustrating because I’m expecting a faster pace. But I’m trying. I’m trying to give myself the time to feel the progress as slowly as it is.

There’s one poem from the book I want to include here.

#37.

The story was told
by a timid narrator who was easily
startled by his own inflections,
         his long pauses...
And in this vacuum
strangers who have enough
stories up their sleeve
took over, continued
his plotless one with poise.
Their voices, loud and
strong like thunder.
cracked the earth he had
never trusted to bear
the weight of his worries.
        He
        fell,
        into
        a
        deep,
        dark
        hole
where the rest of his
kind are trapped⸺trapped
        in their own incapability
to speak for themselves.

The book sits on my desk now, that stressed figure on the cover still staring back at me. I suppose we’re both still here, still sitting, still figuring it out.