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in the transience of life

  Hari ini aku iseng menelusuri Google Maps sebuah pemakaman elit. Banyak kerabat mendiang menandai makam keluarganya di sana. Satu per satu nama ku telusuri jejak hidupnya. Jejak hidup mereka seolah masih hangat, tersimpan rapi di internet: potongan kenangan, foto, kisah, dan jejak kehidupan yang tampaknya dijalani dengan baik. Mereka (kurasa) menjalani hidup yang baik, sangat kecukupan dan mendapatkan cinta yang layak. Pemakaman elit itu pasti diisi oleh mendiang dengan finansial keluarga yang berada. Dari jejak hidup yang ku pelajari juga begitu; titel pekerjaan yang bagus, menikah di hotel mewah, kehidupan yang secara material sangat layak.  Namun, di kesementaraan hidup ini, seseorang yang punya segalanya pun tidak membawa apapun dalam kematiannya. Mereka kembali apa adanya. Tubuh yang dirawat, dijaga, dan dibanggakan pun pada akhirnya akan luruh, pelan-pelan kembali ke alam, menjadi bagian dari siklus yang tak pernah memilih status. Pada titik itu, mereka mempersembahkan...
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#PrayForSumatera AYO TERUS BERISIK SOAL BENCANA DI SUMATERA

Dalam teori Spiral of Silence yang dikemukakan Elisabeth Noelle-Neumann, diam bukanlah kondisi netral. Diam adalah hasil dari rasa takut—takut dikucilkan, takut diserang, takut dianggap berlebihan atau politis. Ketika opini tertentu terus-menerus didengungkan sebagai “normal”, “aman”, dan “baik-baik saja”, sementara opini kritis ditekan atau dipatahkan, maka yang terjadi bukan konsensus, melainkan ilusi persetujuan publik. Inilah yang terjadi dalam isu banjir Sumatera. Narasi pemerintah yang menyebut situasi “terkendali” dan “masih bisa ditangani” berulang kali disuarakan melalui kanal resmi dan media arus utama. Dalam kerangka Spiral of Silence , pengulangan ini membentuk iklim opini dominan —seolah-olah semua orang sepakat bahwa banjir ini bukan masalah serius. Akibatnya, masyarakat yang mengalami penderitaan langsung, atau netizen yang melihat kejanggalan struktural di balik bencana tersebut, mulai ragu untuk bersuara. Mereka takut dianggap membesar-besarkan, menunggangi isu, ata...

O, distant memory

How’s life, O distant memory? With hesitant steps I try to come closer You seemed reluctant to draw near. and I guess I can understand. You kept the space just as it is, But only for tonight Maybe you’ll let us talk about world’s history and conspiracy theories, and you will listen to my rumbles until dawn comes. But I can’t keep my eyes open any longer. The voice of sunrise arrives, and it becomes the end of our conversation. What’s new, O distant memory? Too late to greet you, ain’t I? You seem to drift farther along our broken line. Yet for now, let me hold you in my hand. We’ll shoot the bull about the parallel universe we used to dream of— because in this universe, we’ve wasted so much time. But I guess what happens, happens. I let you drift away through the clouds. I let myself stay still in possibility and impossibility. Will I always be reminiscing you? Will I find my way to you? O, distant memory Wander home to the silent shore  —vic

To Be Small Before the Divine

The storm within me has known no rest. It visits in the hush between dawn and prayer, when the world still slumbers, and my thoughts grow loud. The earth spins swiftly on its axis, chasing the sun with relentless haste, yet here I stand—tethered, heavy, slow. My soul lags behind the march of men; I watch the days unravel like threads slipping from weary hands. I meet countless faces, radiant and certain, yet within me, doubt stirs like a restless tide. I ask myself,  Who am I in the vast decree of His creation?  A breath among storms, a grain among mountains, a spark that flickers, known only to the One who kindled it. The world teaches us to run—to build, to gather, to proclaim our worth upon fragile pedestals—but my heart whispers another truth: that to diminish oneself before the Divine is the only way to truly rise. For what glory can man claim when his end is dust, when his pulse is but a loan from the Almighty? I have seen men boast of their light, yet forget that light ...

My September in the Midst of Chaos

(I made this on September, 3rd, 2025)   This September feels so heavy in Indonesia. Everywhere I turn, the news is filled with protests, anger, and heartbreak.  The unrest began in August, when public anger erupted over lawmakers’ lavish housing perks—benefits so excessive they felt like mockery against the struggles of ordinary people. That anger only deepened with the tragedy of Affan Kurniawan, a young motorcycle taxi driver killed by an armored police vehicle during a demonstration. His death, caught on camera, became a symbol of injustice and sparked a wave of grief and rage. That image has stayed with me, as it has with so many others. Now the unrest has spread across the country—Jakarta, Surabaya, Bandung, Makassar. Protesters fill the streets, government buildings and police stations are burned, and casualties keep rising. Security forces respond with tear gas, arrests, and armored vehicles, while leaders seem distant, even absent. Watching President Prabowo attend a m...

Leave The Past as It Is~

  Scrolling through old tweets, old photos, old group chats… it’s like opening a little time capsule where everything felt lighter, more full of connection, and like life hadn’t scattered everyone yet. That’s kind of feeling is grief, in a quiet, tender kind of way. You're grieving how life used to be. And it makes sense. Back then, you probably weren’t thinking about responsibilities, future plans, or staying connected—because everything just was. Friends were near, laughter was easy, and the world felt more within reach. As we grow up, people drift. Life paths split off in quiet ways. It doesn’t mean those friendships didn’t matter—they did. They shaped you. And even if they faded, the joy you felt back then was real, and yours forever. You’re not broken for missing what was. You’re human. Tender-hearted. Nostalgic. And that’s a beautiful thing. Realizing that life doesn’t always separate people with big, dramatic goodbyes. Sometimes it’s just distance, time, priorities shifting ...

Camille Monet for Claude Monet

Oh, how it feels to be someone’s muse—to live in their thoughts, to move their hands in art, to be the reason beauty takes form To exist not just in their world, but in their work—their sketches, their melodies, their quiet thoughts between moments. There’s something timeless about that kind of presence, something unspoken and golden. Like Camille Monet did for Claude Monet. There’s something beautiful about inspiring art simply by being loved, and I hope one day, I can be that source of beauty and emotion for someone too. I want to be remembered in brushstrokes and feeling. To be looked at the way an artist sees their favorite subject—not for perfection, but for the way light falls across your face, for the way your silence says everything. I want to be the color that changes with the seasons in someone’s painting. To be loved so deeply, so gently, that their hands cannot help but create. What a beautiful kind of immortality that is. —vic