Living alone, Europe and death

99% of the time, when I enter my house I walk straight up ahead to my bulky 15 inch television, turn it on, and untangle one by one of my clothes so that by the time I reach the bathroom, I am stark nekkid and ready to bathe. 99% of the time, I am not bothered of what's on it. I just needed that buzzing sound, that's battling with the beetles' sound outside, so I don't feel completely alone.

Living alone is the most exciting, and most dangerous thing in the world. Especially for someone like me, who forgets almost everything and - by everything I mean the iron, the stove and the heater all together at one time. Not only is it expensive to live as me, it's also hazardous.

I know many friends, and families and online apps have been trying to get me to go out there (which I occasionally do in between 6 months), but orchestrating something in this department is not really my thing. And I mean, by NOT.

Whenever Jazz is around, I would hang out with her and hear all her awesome stories about life and dating and there I am just sipping my mocktail, eyes wide open like a potato. Can someone diagnose me? Have I got no bones for these things?

Turns out I don't.

When acquaintances and friends started showing smoke signals to me, I retreat in my house cause - no matter how many Hollywood movies say that's always the happy ending - I really don't think  friends going at it is a natural thing. Annnnnnd neup. 



Sometime in end of May, I traveled to Budapest - Vienna - Prague with mum and Jessy. I know I take okay photos, and I sometimes I rummage through the millions of photos to upload that 1 - 10 perfect shots of anything, not before I edit the fck out of them too, cause you know, tomatoes and cheeses look different in every filters - but I realized the art of uploading stuff on social media is ridiculous. I mean, beautiful. So by the time I finish selecting one photo, I was already too tired to think of a caption. And I'm a caption lady. Girl, I'd be spending 3 hours on a caption and 3 minutes on a photo edit.

While not being able to pay attention to mum and Jessy, when thinking of what to write I decided to again, fck it all and stop uploading anything at all. And it was true, I enjoy most of my moments when I'm not snapping something, when my sister tilts her head on me, when I steal a glimpse of mum enjoying the breeze and sheer confusion of the places we're visiting. Those were truly, the best moments of the trip.

Coming back to Europe was an exhausting affair. Truth is, the entire thing was an exhausting affair. But it was fun, exciting, confusing, rewarding, and many things as it always should. And I have lived up every inch of myself, whenever I'm visiting a place. So passionate, so enthused about going around - leaving my tired, high and dry.

Which was why just when we came back from another rewarding experience, the story about Anthony Bourdain, shackled me. I have never been so numb, so speechless about a celebrity death unlike his.

It was .. the idea, that someone like Bourdain, even with an amazing partner by their side, a great kid, life lived whole heartedly at a done-it-all age, still admit defeat to this toughest game called life. What about to the rest of us? Have we no hope in this thing called life?

I developed many theories, but nothing like truly believing in the theory of tired. Physically, spiritually, most especially mentally. There is a voice that would tell you  to stop, and take a rest, completely - when you are the most tired.

Many times we can differentiate that while we are able, but the world have pushed us to think that we needed to do many things while we are alive - myself included. And by the motion of the world, we continue until we were forced to stop.

Do not exert yourselves. This post is dedicated to the man whom I've admired so much, for living so honestly (at least in front of the cameras) and for saying everything needed to be said in front of the camera.

It's time to rest.



Love,
Jacqueline Rowena @ Jacqkie.

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