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.

Throughout my lifetime, I’ve lived in four or five places. From a small quiet village in West Sumbawa to the big city like Jakarta. There’s one place that I want to claim as my own, though I have no right to it.

Semarang exists in my life like a half-remembered song. I know the melody but can’t quite place the lyrics. I was born there but left when I was barely one year old, carried away to a small town 80 kilometers west where I would spend the next seventeen years of my life. Yet something about Semarang pulls at me, makes me want to call it home in a way my actual hometown never could.

Perhaps it’s the weight the name carries. There’s a certain prestige in saying you’re from Semarang. It’s an okay city, not too big, not too small, not too crowded, definitely not too chaotic. When I mention it, people nod with recognition. They know it. It exists on their mental map of Indonesia in a way my actual hometown never will.

I know fragments of Semarang like scattered puzzle pieces that never quite form a complete picture. I know that my father’s school is the number one school in the city—I even tried to enroll there once but decided against it. I make pilgrimages to Nasi Gandul Pak Memet on Jalan Dr. Cipto every time I have the chance, though the warung is usually closed when I arrive. My family performs our annual ritual of visiting the Gramedia bookstore on Jalan Pandanaran whenever we mudik, as if this routine might somehow anchor us to the place.

I can recite neighborhood names like: Peterongan, Gombel, Banyumanik, Kesatrian, Kalibanteng, Krapyak, Tol Jatingaleh, Tembalang, etc. I know where to find good soto Semarang, or where to get proper lumpia. These are the credentials of familiarity, the evidence I collect to prove my connection.

But then reality intrudes. These names feel strange and utterly distant on my tongue, as if I’m an alien trying to speak a language I’ve only heard in fragments. The words don’t flow naturally. They stick, unfamiliar and awkward. Ask me how to get from Undip to Paragon Mall, and I will freeze immediately. I can’t even picture where Paragon Mall is located, let alone trace a route there in my mind. Without Google Maps, I’m helpless, a tourist in what should be my hometown.

The contradiction is maddening. I visit every year for mudik, walking through streets that should feel like home but instead feel like a recurring dream—familiar in theory, strange in practice. I know Semarang exists in my life, but I don’t live in Semarang’s life.

My connection to the city has always been filtered through distance and longing. My first crush was a girl who studied at SMP 2 Semarang. I saw her picture on my middle school friend’s laptop. The weirdest part is we’d never met, yet something about her being from there made her seem more significant, more real somehow. Even my mother attended a Catholic school there despite not being Catholic herself, adding another layer to my family’s complicated relationship with the city.

To be honest, I prefer Jojga, where I currently live. Jogja feels like home in all the ways Semarang doesn’t. I know its streets, its rhythms, its personality. I can navigate it without Maps, can recommend places with confidence, can speak its neighborhood names with ease. But Jogja isn’t where I’m from, it’s just where I happen to be.

This tension actually comes from a regular question, a simple “where are you from?”.

My instinct is to mention the small town where I actually grew up, where my memories live, where I spent seventeen years of my early life. But there’s always this hesitation, this pull toward another answer: Semarang. The city I want to claim but feel I have no right to.

The question freezes me every time because it forces me to confront this contradiction at my core. I want to be remembered as a person from Semarang, want that connection, that belonging, that simple answer to a simple question. But the unfamiliarity I feel with the city seems to whisper that I cannot claim it.

Identity, it turns out, isn’t just about where you’re born or where you live. It’s about the space between those two points, the longing for connection, the gap between who you were, who you are, and who you want to be. Semarang represents something I’ve never quite been able to grasp: the idea of having a hometown that matters, a place that shaped me before I was even old enough to remember.

Perhaps this unfamiliarity is its own kind of relationship. Perhaps loving a city from a distance, knowing it in fragments, carrying its name like a question mark. Perhaps that’s also a way of belonging. Not the belonging of daily life and worn paths, but the belonging of inheritance and aspiration, of claiming something not because you lived it, but because it lives in you.

The city I want to claim as my own remains familiarly unfamiliar, and maybe that’s exactly what makes it mine.

Nostalgia is a beautiful liar. It shows you highlight reels while hiding all the reasons things ended. Like a dentist’s novocaine before a painful procedure, it numbs the sharp edges of your present reality, offering temporary relief from whatever ache you’re trying to escape.

Sometimes nostalgia hits you like a truck out of nowhere—triggered by a song bleeding through coffee shop speakers, the particular scent of someone’s perfume on a crowded street, or a photograph that falls from an old book. Other times, you seek it out deliberately, scrolling through old photos and replaying conversations, convincing yourself that what’s gone was better than what remains.

This is nostalgia’s paradox: it can be both medicine and poison, depending on the dosage.

When you’re stuck in a rut, nostalgia reminds you that you once did meaningful things, that you once enjoyed life fully. It’s proof that happiness existed, that connection was real, that you’re capable of feeling whole. In small doses, this remembering can be healing—evidence that good times are possible again.

But abuse the prescription, and nostalgia becomes something else entirely. It traps you between worlds: physically here but mentally living in moments that no longer exist. You find yourself giving your present away to ghosts who have already moved on with their lives. While you’re analyzing every detail of what used to be, they’ve created new stories that don’t include you. They’ve found peace by letting go of what you still hold onto.

The cruelest part is that you’re often remembering alone.

Your mind wasn’t designed to live in the past. It was made for right now, for building new connections, for healing, for growing beyond what was. When nostalgia becomes your primary coping mechanism, when you’re constantly numbing today’s pain with yesterday’s joy, you stop progressing. You become, in a sense, dead to the present moment.

Yet there’s wisdom in recognizing nostalgia’s power. You can learn to create it intentionally, focusing on present moments with the awareness that they might one day become the memories that sustain you. Think of it as stacking aspirin for reality’s future headaches. Document the ordinary Tuesday. Notice how the light falls across your kitchen table. Pay attention to how your friend laughs at your terrible joke.

The memories worth keeping are the ones that gently inform your future, not the ones that hold it hostage. The difference lies in whether you’re using the past as a foundation to build upon or as a hiding place to retreat to.

[FRAME ONE]

You called, asked me whether I wanted to have dinner with you. You said you wanted to celebrate something. I picked you up at your office, a thirty‐minute drive from mine. The evening air was thick when you stepped out of your building. You were seven minutes late, slightly breathless, tucking your hair behind your ear.

The Italian place was quiet for a Friday. Wine glasses clinked, shadows danced on white tablecloths, and the owner’s grey cat watched us from its usual spot by the window. Our knees touched under the small table while you told me about a book you would never finish reading. Something parallel universes and how time wasn’t really linear. I watched the way your fingers traced the rim of your wine glass, leaving prints that disappeared like secrets.

[FRAME TWO]

The drive back was filled with comfortable silence until we reached your building. You didn’t move to get out. Instead, you stared at your windows, dark against the night sky. “My place feels too quiet lately”, you said, fingers playing with the strap of your bag. Your hand reached inside, searching for something, then stopped halfway. The streetlight above us flickered, catching the hesitation in your expression. “I don’t want to go home yet”, you whispered, almost to yourself.

“We could go to my place” I said, like an afterthought, though we both knew it wasn’t. You looked at me then, really looked at me, as if you had seen this moment coming from miles away. Your fingers found mine across the center console, and you nodded.

Just once. Just enough.

[FRAME THREE]

Your eyes mapped the geography of my organized chaos, and I saw my apartment through your gaze. Negative sheets spread across my desk, empty film canisters pilled up in a cardboard box and a half-empty coffee mug from three days ago. Books stacked like building blocks beside my bed. You didn’t comment on the mess; you simply trailed your fingers across my negative sheet.

The room felt smaller with you in it. You tiptoed to reach my face — I had never noticed how much shorter you were without your office heels. Then came a kiss. Sweet as watermelon, warm as sunset.

The taste of wine still lingered on your tongue.

[FRAME FOUR]

Your blouse fell quietly to the floor beside my bed. In the darkness of my room, I could sense your soft, delicate figure. I asked if you wanted to stop, and you answered by pressing your lips against mine, with your hands pulling me closer. There was a gentleness in the way your fingers traced their way across my shoulders.

A small scar below your rib cage caught the streetlight filtering through my blinds. Your hands shook slightly as they moved across my skin, and I wondered if you were as nervous as I was. Some moments were meant to stay unspoken. Like how your fingers quivered. Like the way you held your breath.

[FRAME FIVE]

Strange how naked felt like the easiest part. It was everything else that made us tremble.

[FRAME SIX]

I realized you never had a good night’s sleep. Your body twitched beside me and your fingers clutched the sheets. In the blue darkness, I watched your face contort against whatever haunted your dreams. As if your past was a regular guest that pays you a visit every night, sitting at the edge of the bed, leaving impressions only you can see.

I held your hand and whispered that everything’s gonna be okay. The lie tasted familiar on my tongue. You squeezed back unconsciously, and for a moment, your face softened as if you believed me.

[FRAME SEVEN]

In the silence between breaths, we both knew something we were afraid to admit: You, that you might stay. Me, that I wanted you to. Us, that there might be an us.

Some people collect broken things. Some people are the broken things. I’m not sure which one of us is which.

[FRAME EIGHT]

You’re gone, but your presence lingers. A long dark hair curls on my pillowcase. The faint trace of your perfume clings in my sheets. A coffee mug on my desk with the ghost of your lipstick on its rim: coral pink, slightly smudged. This morning feels cold and hollow.

You are a shattered vase filled with withered roses. And as I try to piece together the fragments of you left behind, I realize: the tighter I hold these memories, the more distant they feel.

There’s a pattern to how my eyes work. When I’m not interested in a date, I’ve learned to craft an illusion of attention: speaking more than necessary, gesturing with my hands to draw focus away from my wandering gaze. The room becomes my refuge: light fixtures casting circles of warmth, exposed beams stretching overhead, the condensation rolling down my water glass. I find solace in anything but direct eye contact, filling the air with words and movements. Sometimes I wonder if they notice, these women whose eyes I can’t meet.

I was ten minutes early to Emilia. You know, that Italian place next to Blanco Coffee in Permata Hijau. I used to work at their Jogja branch as a barista during uni. Different city, same coffee beans, same ambience. Sometimes I imagine being in Blanco with its calm atmosphere whenever I need to be deeply focused on something important. Tonight, the familiar scent of coffee drifted through the shared wall, but for once, it wasn’t my destination.

She walked in at 7:04. Four minutes late, but who’s counting? I caught her eyes before anything else. Eyes that smiled before her lips did. God, she was beautiful. She wore this burgundy blouse that somehow made her skin glow, though I wouldn’t fully appreciate that yet. I was too busy studying the menu while waiting.

We started with crostini prosciutto and truffle arancini, paired with a bottle of slightly chilled Montepulciano. She opened the conversation with how Jakarta’s sunsets have been getting prettier lately. “I had to stop several times to take pictures of the sunset”, she said. Maybe that’s why she was a little bit late. I totally understand. Today’s sunset was pretty.

While she munched her part of crostini she talked about this hidden jazz cafe she discovered in Kemang. She described it as a “sanctuary”. “Let’s go there”, I said. “ It’s closed, and their instagram account seems inactive”, she replied. “We’ll find another place”, I assured.

Then I told her about my scuba diving experience in Nusa Penida. The moment of panic when I went against strong current, how time seems to move differently underwater. Her eyes lit up. She started telling me about her recent trip to Lombok, how she really wanted to try scuba diving but she was afraid of going deep in the water. “I ended up spending hours just laying on the beach instead” she said, “watching the waves meet the shore. There’s something about the repetition of it. It’s like breathing”.

That’s when it happened. My eyes found hers, and they stayed there.

Brown. But not just brown. In the warm restaurant lighting, I could see rings of honey-gold circling her pupils, fading into deeper amber at the edges. Like coffee crema swirling into espresso. Like the gradient of sky at dusk.

The pappardelle beef ragu arrived alongside the Margherita pizza and arugula burrata salad. She twirled perfect spirals of pasta while telling me about this book she just finished. She leaned forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper when dissecting the absurdity of the plot, then threw her head back laughing at the male character’s flaws. Her theories about the author’s intentions spilled out between sips of wine, fingers tracing patterns on the tablecloth as she connected the dots.

We clinked our glasses once again. The wine paired perfectly with everything, including our conversation. She talked about her dreams, her vulnerabilities. That she’s afraid of being too much and not enough at the same time. That sometimes she feels like she’s running out of time to become the person she wants to be. That she worries her practical side might someday silence her adventurous one.

Is it too early to talk about something more personal?
Well, I don’t know…
Probably.

We split the tiramisu and pistachio cannoli for dessert. She had a small smudge of powdered sugar just below the right corner of her lips. I wanted to tell her. I didn’t. Some imperfections I want to keep for myself.

Two hours had passed. I hadn’t noticed time slipping away, too absorbed in her stories. She talked about this, and then talked about that, and many other things. My ears were all hers, drinking in every word while my eyes stayed fixed on those eyes, calm pools of amber.

Here, in Emilia, I found the right pair of eyes to get lost in.

I first noticed Yuki’s peculiar habit during our lunch meetup in northern Tokyo. As we walked to the restaurant, he led us through a series of what seemed like unnecessary detours, always managing to find a pedestrian bridge whenever we needed to cross a street. At first, I assumed it was just coincidence.

The restaurant he chose was excellent. A small ramen shop tucked away in a quiet corner. As we slurped our noodles, I finally asked him about our roundabout route.

He smiled, a hint of pride crossing his face. “I know every pedestrian bridges in Tokyo.”

I nearly choked on my noodles. “That’s impossible. There must be hundreds.”

“Four hundred and twelve, to be exact” he said, stirring his broth. “Want me to prove it?”

After lunch, he offered to walk me to Ueno Station, two stops away from where we were. True to his word, he navigated us through a maze of streets, never once using a zebra crossing. Each time we needed to cross, he’d lead us to a bridge with unwavering confidence, as if following an invisible map etched in his mind.

“This is incredible” I said, watching the cars pass beneath us on our fourth bridge crossing. “But why memorize all these bridges?”

He just shrugged, his eyes fixed on the distant skyline.

…

I thought his ability was fascinating, if a bit eccentric. His girlfriend Rin (well, now ex-girlfriend), however, didn’t share my enthusiasm.

I discovered this one Saturday evening at Hamamatsucho Station. I spotted them arguing at the station entrance. Yuki stood with his arms crossed, exhaustion evident on his face.

“I can’t do this anymore, Yuki” she said. “A thirty-minute walk turned into two hours. Just because you wouldn’t cross at street level!”

I hung back, pretending to check my phone, but couldn’t help overhearing.

“You don’t understand” Yuki pleaded. “I need to use the bridges. They’re safe.”

“Safe? It’s a crossing light, not a monster!” Rin threw up her hands. “I’m done. Find someone else to go on your bridge tours.”

After she stormed off, I approached Yuki. He stood there, shoulders slumped, staring at the ground.

“Hey” I said softly. “Are you okay?”

He looked up, trying to force a smile. “Ah, you saw that?”

…

We found a quiet bench outside the station. The evening crowds flowed around us.

“I’ve never told anyone this” he said, “But I don’t like zebra crossings.”

“What do you mean you don’t like zebra crossings?”

“I’m scared of them. I don’t know why, but I cannot cross the street on zebra crossings. That’s why I memorized all the bridges. But Rin called me crazy.”

I froze for a second. I thought he was just messing with me. That’s just ridiculous. “He broke up with his girlfriend because he’s scared of zebra crossings?” I thought. I wanted to laugh but he seemed serious, as if he really was scared of them. I coughed a little bit to hide my laugh.

I patted his shoulder sympathetically. “Hey, it’s okay buddy. I’m sure you’ll find someone else who appreciates a good bridge tour. Maybe even someone who shares your… unique perspective on street crossings.”

He looked up hopefully. “You think so?”

“Well… “
“ maybe.”

Expanded from an idea I got after watching my friend Adi, become extremely overwhelmed when we visited Shibuya Crossing

This is a long overdue apology. A ghost itself, haunting me for 365 days, drifting between what was and what could have been. One year of silence, of shadows.

I remember you as something delicate and pure. The sweetest girl I have ever met. You were never meant to be a footnote in my careless narrative, never meant to be left suspended in the liminal space between almost and never.

Your eyes, they were full of possibility, unbridled hope, looking at me like I was something extraordinary when I knew I was anything but. I was a storm you didn’t see coming. A silence that would consume your tender expectations. I left without explanation, without the courtesy of a proper goodbye. Just a ghost, slipping between the margins of what we could have been.

I was simply cruel. My silence was a violence. A wound I carved into your tender heart, believing you would understand the unspoken rules of a game you never agreed to play. That message you sent months after I disappeared —God, it shattered me. Your raw vulnerability laid bare. I realized then that for you, this was never a game. For you, this was a possibility of something real, something sacred.

I should have given you closure. I should have told you definitively. Yes or no, stay or go. Instead, I chose the coward’s path, leaving you hanging in an endless maybe. Your heart trembling like a leaf in an uncertain wind.

I’m sorry, Clare. I’m truly sorry. Not just with words, but with the heavy weight of understanding the damage I’ve caused. Sorry for treating your heart like a disposable thing, when you deserved to be held, to be certain, to be chosen.

You thanked me for finding you before. But the truth is, you were the one who saw me. Truly saw me. When no one else did.

TITLE     : FORGOTTEN ADVENTURE
PROJECT   : Personal photozine
FORMAT    : Limited physical copies
PUBLISHED : 2024

Since I was young, I’ve dreamt of exploring the world, venturing through dense forests, hiking towering mountains, and swimming in crystal-clear seas. This longing for adventure has always been a part of me—a deep desire to experience the raw beauty of nature and the thrill of discovery. It all started with a simple curiosity: what would it be like to live the stories I read in magazines, to step into the pages of those thrilling tales of exploration?

By the time I reached high school, I took every opportunity to make these dreams a reality—hiking mountains, exploring deep forests, and camping on quiet beaches. Whether I was backpacking with friends or traveling solo, my camera was always by my side, evolving from a small pocket camera to a more robust DSLR. I made photography my way of capturing the landscapes, moments, and feelings of freedom that came with each adventure. My mission remained the same: to capture the breathtaking landscapes and unforgettable journeys. I aimed to preserve the essence of these experiences—turning them into stories told through photos.

However, life has a way of shifting priorities. As I entered college, the longing for adventure began to fade. Though I continued to hike and travel, the experience felt different. The fiery passion that once fueled my explorations had dimmed.

Forgotten Adventure is a tribute to the adventures that shaped me, a reminder of the life I once led. It is a chronicle of my obsession with freedom, the thrill of traversing the landscape, and the joy of seeing the part of the world i have never seen. Through these pages, I seek to relive the exhilaration of discovering new horizons and the profound journey of self-discovery.

Through this book, I want to tell a story, glimpses of my quest to push boundaries, capture inspiring images, and forge unforgettable memories. It is a testament to the friendships made along the way and the relentless drive to explore the unknown.