Vinka's Library of Mind

  I decided to read—and eventually buy— The Great Gatsby  after Haruki Murakami recommended it in his memoir  What I Talk About When I Talk About Running . Murakami wrote: “The Great Gatsby is a truly extraordinary novel. I never tire of its story, no matter how many times I read it. It is a work of literature that enriches you each time you open it. Every rereading reveals something new, something fresh.” At first, the story felt painfully slow. I even put the book down for almost two weeks—despite its slim length of just over a hundred pages. Jazz Age America, seen through Nick Carraway’s eyes, appeared hollow to me: a world filled with etiquette, polite conversations, and quiet arrogance. Everything shifted the moment Nick met Jay Gatsby. Something clicked. From that point on, I could no longer stop turning the pages. Gatsby stood apart from the people of East Egg and West Egg—mysterious, hopeful, and perhaps the only character who possessed a sincere emotional core in...

  George Orwell's  Animal Farm  is an immensely powerful political allegory, originally crafted as a satirical reflection of Stalinism, but it continues to resonate deeply with today's political landscape. Through the lens of a seemingly simple tale about a group of farm animals rebelling against their human oppressor, Orwell weaves a timeless narrative about the corrupting influence of power, and how idealistic revolutions can devolve into oppressive regimes. At its core,  Animal Farm  mirrors the events of the Russian Revolution, but what makes it timeless is the broader, more universal themes that Orwell masterfully explores. The pigs, who assume control after the rebellion, gradually adopt the same authoritarian practices they initially sought to overthrow. The famous line "All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others" encapsulates the betrayal of ideals that often occurs when power is centralized in the hands of a few. This theme isn't...

  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...

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...

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

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 ...