Let's write with me - The Secret Desire

Chapter Four

The usual chimes tinkled from the coffee shop's entrance door, the distant chatters and mirth, the whirring of the coffee machine, the clang of the register, and the soft classical music from the background failed to indulgently charm her.

She barely enjoyed any of her days, mainly on sunny days like this. She loathed the sweat and the unapologetic humidity that always made her wavy black jet hair become frizzy like she had been electrocuted by the infamous Van De Graaff Generator.

The worst; she loathed when there were too many people around, especially when there were too many people around.

Society terrified her.

Most of the time, she felt threatened by their mere presence, who she posed as the courtroom members standing idly, peering and judging her every move like hawks with a black cloak over their shoulders. Their presence posed a constant worry, casting her as a convict ready to be executed for every interaction she had.

Guilty!

BAM!

BAM!

BAM!

Regardless, she had a strong desire to fit in, and no matter how much she despised the crowd, inevitably, she needed them to at least feel like she existed. Like in a trinket box, she was cocooned in her own complex paradoxes, courting the inevitable with dim enthusiasts each day.

She did not technically hate life because she believed it lacked absolute meaning; instead, she despised the fact that, as a human, she was designed to experience emotions and possess free will.

At times, she wondered if anyone else shared a similar sentiment or outlook on life as hers. A Satanist, perhaps? An atheist? A world-renowned philosopher? Or?

She peered over a group of people across the cafe, wearing all black and stoically staring at their screens as their fingers were fleeting on the 105 keys like they were performing a score on a grand piano. Maybe them? They might be her 'people'.

The sound of someone's raucous greeting from behind startled her, and swiftly, she pulled down her faded green sleeves, covering her fingers. Heads down, avoiding any peering glances.

" 1...,"

" 2...,"

Her shoulder limped down in an attempt to make herself small and hope to be invincible from anyone's sight. She remained silent as she waited for them to walk away from her safe territory.

While waiting for the lengthy 'tengah - tengah jalan' chat to pass, Kemboja nervously rubbed her thumb in between her, ahem, fugly—not model-like slander, pointy fingers. She particularly felt insecure about them.

"They are so fucking ugly..." she sighed as she stared at her frail, almost man-like fingers and wondered if there was a way to alter that.

Oh! Whatever it was that she despised, she wanted to alter it.

Her nose,

Her small almond eyes,

Her eyelashes are nonexistent and straight,

Her cheeks,

Her lips,

Her legs,

Her flabby stomach.

Basically, she desired to become a whole other person. Before realising, in order to realise all her unrealistic dreams, she needed a shitload of cash, and yeah, she was broke as fuck.

"To change is to own money..."

"To change is to own money..."

As she heard those footsteps gradually walking away, she started to adjust her cocooned posture and veered her focus on her Macbook's screen. However, something else snatched away her focus which she felt glad for.

Are you free tomorrow? — Emotionally unavailable person

She stared at the notification banner, and when she saw who the sender was, her distraction immediately became bothersome. She hated the fact that he always bossed her around and showed the least interest in her many dreams and most of the time, she wondered why the fuck she still kept him around.

" Whatever, motherfucker! I'm in a war of my own."

❧

For almost three hours, she had dedicatedly put her focus, staring blankly at her Macbook's screen. Even the hot coffee latte she ordered has gone cold. Not as freezing cold as her dysfunctional, useless brain. The mysterious part was how she was able to question whether her brain was functioning when she was aware that it was not functioning. As mouthful as the words were, it was indeed bizarrely mind-boggled.

She hadn't taken a sip yet, for she was devotedly blank-staring at the white pane of her Microsoft Word, figuring out what to do with it or what word she should start with.

"What the hell I'm going to write?"

She wondered how all the writers have the guts to write and expose themselves nakedly in words. Those writers who bleed words onto papers effortlessly never fail to fascinate her, for she had nothing to spill. The words were drier than her two parted lips. Hollow, however, was ruthlessly deep. Unexplored.

She had thought most of her stories were mostly deliriously boring and less biblical. She was unsure if anyone would be interested in reading hers, for she had nothing to divulge. Even Pak Pandir's tales were way more enthralling than hers, despite his foolish personification.

Yeah, of course. The course of her life was just as buttery plain as everyone else's, yet from her perspective, her narratives were pretty much lame and less traditional than everyone else's, which she found hard to compose and comprehend.

"Bet no one ever wants to explore the mundanity of my misfortunes."

All her life, she had been needlessly private. She barely showed her frail, pale skin to the world. Let alone shared a faint curvature of her lips. She never indulges in exhibiting her life to the public and lets them easily judge her. In a footnote, she barely had friends, too; thus, it proved that she was a void. Uninterestingly boring.

"Man, after all, is stupid, phenomenally stupid. Babi! I wish I could be as brilliant," a droop of heavy sigh echoes in an uncertain vacuum where neither a soul nor any nocturnal species were able to hear her. Let alone veering their heads out of curiosity.

"Should I write something untrue? Something made up? Like fiction?" She internally mutters indecisively about what to present to the world.

Heads hanging in between her side temples, "ugh! SIAL!"

Drop dead silence, like a stroll in the graveyard.

Great!

She was unmistakably aware that every eye from every corner of the stinkingly busy cafe was darting at her, figuring out what the fuck was wrong with her. Perhaps, just perhaps, one or maybe a few of them were ready to call her out. However, she knew how to keep her composure together and act as if she was not bothered by those fixated, piercing eyes. Calmly, she picked up and sipped her cold coffee, placing her fingers on the keycaps, and started to type

'Fuck everyone...'

That was how she started her first novel.

❧

Yeah, I am free.

Sent.

Fuck!