My first blog ever

    I know it's kinda late to make your first blogspot at the age of 25. Blogspot is a year older than me, and I've known it since I was like 7 or 8, yet it never crossed my mind even just once to create one. I was reading a review of a book I've just finished reading on goodreads when I accidentally stumbled someone's blogspot. Man, it brought old memories seeing the oldschool UI (Especially those abundant time to surf through the internet as a kid on holiday)

    And after pretty much consideration, I reckon it's a perfect time to start writing again (I haven't write anything substantial for a while because I always think that I lost a sense of touch). I know there are lots of another platform to create a web to express yourself, but I choose this particularly because of the nostalgia. Well, for instance I don't need anything fancy or multiple features that I won't use at all. As long as I can write and post anything I want, such as book-review, my own personal experiences, or just another blabbering that gives no important significance, trust me it's not really a big deal.

    To write a first post in my own blogspot somehow feels daunting. Even though I know for a fact that there's nothing to be afraid of, every time my fingers jump from one keypad to another, I feel like I've been watched by some mysterious creatures lurking in the corner which isn't covered by the light. They definitely can smell my cowardice and send me a message through an unknown wave that can only be deciphered by rather someone else but me.

    "You're not a good writer, then why bother writing something?"

    I try not to listen to them and keep minding my own business but I can. The more I ignore them, the more I'm under their grips. 

    "Can you just leave me alone? I do nothing wrong," I said, taking a deep breath.

    "We can't let someone who isn't capable enough to taint the literary world," They answered.

    Gazing at the oscillating fan moving left and right, I try to clear up my mind and tell myself that it was just my imagination and nothing bad is going to happen. I close my eyes, count from one to ten and then open them slowly. Nothing happened. Those kind of monsters are only existed in this world as a form of my own fears. I ask myself honestly, what am I actually afraid of. Or maybe they're just stand-in for something else. Something so obvious, which is my inner fear that people would judge my writing. People would tell truth that I don't have that gifts to write anything and I should give up on it.

    Yes, true, that at the moment I'm still learning something new and I'm truly afraid that people would go straightforward with me. But there is actually another reason why I spend my precious nights by holed up in my room and tried to type something in my computer: I want to write in this blog is because I feel lonely sometimes. I want to make sure that you (who ever read this) know the difference between being alone and feeling lonely. Being alone is a blessing in disguise. Time seems to freeze, and in a dimensionless space, past, present, and future are meaningless. Without worrying about what would happen next or suffering from a bad memories, you indulge yourself in the present time. Aware of what you're doing, what you're seeing, what you're hearing, and you totally give it all. Being alone is being alive. But what about feeling lonely? It's the worst thing ever that happens to you sometimes. Even in the crowd, people are there, scattering in this wicked world. Even if you just decide it's too much bother to go outside, with just one click away you can be connected to million people at the end of the continent who are ready to discuss anything with you, and you will still be feeling disconnected from the outer world. Connecting your heart with others is something that remains mysterious up until now. One day you feel that your closest relative feel distant and the stranger you accidentaly met feel like and old friend. Just like what Nietzsche said, that every people speaks different language whom their neighbors couldn't understand. 

    I've finished writing and with almost half-emptied canned beer that I hold upright, I cheer myself with nothingness.