Off The Grid: Day 2

I don't know what it is. This feeling I get everytime I lay my head down for bed. I have this need to just stand or sit still. Completely still. So still that if anyone paid attention long enough they'd probably think I stopped breathing. That for all intents and purposes, my body had just shut down, rejecting any form of physical movement.

My eyes, I imagine, looked dead. But inside my head and heart were racing.

There's this one day during the Retreat, the few days that still makes me wince when I think about it, where we had sessions with a psychology team from UI (University of Indonesia). To be honest, as interesting as the session was, I felt completely uncomfortable. Like I was being put under a microscope when the last thing I wanted was to be psycho-analyzed. Especially in front of this group of people I had just gotten to know.

The kind uni students (or graduates, I forgot which) who talked to us that day were extremely kind. They carefully gauged the atmosphere of the room -- we were all pretty tuckered out from the previous day's exhausting outbound -- and paced the session accordingly. They were open to listen to our opinions, giving us a chance to analyze our own and each other's answers to the scenarios and questions given.

I was doing pretty fine at first. We weren't pressured to give out our answers, which others could maybe jump to conclusions about. It felt nice to have these personal revelations about yourself. Even looking into the dark corners of your mind felt okay, simply because you were the only one seeing them. But during the final hours of the session, we were asked to imagine what our lives would be like in 10 years. How we imagined our own selves to be.

Those are the kind of questions that paralyze me. Not the ones that have A, B or Cs to choose from. The open-ended questions that let your imagination run wild, that disregard the concept of right or wrong.

But my biggest fear is that I'd let it run much too far. That I'd be setting myself up for disappointment when I set the bar too high.

When we were asked to write them down, I looked down at the small square of origami paper and laughed aloud. I would need much more space than this. I'd probably need to reduce the Amazon rain forest by half just to get enough paper. With each little wish I jotted down (each a bit vague in handsight -- I had trouble pinning down specifics because it felt obssessive) I smiled and laughed and winced. It felt fun at first. Day-dreaming, playing dress-up and writing down a whole person's history.

At some point, I remembered that that person was supposed to be me.

The longer the list became, the more this sadness seemed to embrace me. I felt like I was hoping for far too much, wanting far too much. I felt insecure, delusional. Like I was making myself believe in the impossible because that's what I thought I was writing.

Most advice an adult gives you when you talk about your future runs along this main point: "Find the one thing your good at and go with it. Even if you're terrible at everything else, be good at that one thing and you'll mean something. You can be someone worth remembering."

No matter how hard I try, I can't seem to fall into that state of mind. The paradigm that demanded I choose just one thing. Because I can't. I really, really can't. So on that strange little bucket list of mine I had a billion things going at once: I wanted to be a musician, a photographer, an actor, an author, a dancer, a journalist. And the more I accumulated those little desires, the more I felt my heart constrict.

This is too much, I say to myself over and over again even as I continue to write. Then the young woman who was giving the lectures, said we were to present our dreams in front of everyone else, making me even more flustered.

There's no way I could read everything I wrote. I'd be up there all night, if it really came to that. I felt embarassed more than anything. They'd laugh. If anyone was to hear every single thing I dream of, I really believe they'd laugh. Hell, I'd even laugh. I do laugh at the mere ridiculousness of my notions.

So when my turn came up, I didn't read everything I wrote. You might find it surprising when I say that I had no trouble singling out what I did feel comfortable with confessing aloud. A journalist. It made sense didn't it? Everyone keeps on saying that I have this gift for writing (though I strongly think that's debatable). Whenever anyone asks me about my future, that's my go-to answer. Journalism. Writing novels. It has always sounded like the obvious choice, the safest answer. But I always say such things with reservations.

The person who gives out that answer sounds like a robot. I swear that person doesn't even sound like me. It was a dream I once craved for. One that lit my eyes, my entire being. But that flame of passion has long been doused. It's not that I don't like writing anymore. I still do. It's just that I'm pretty much clueless right now. I have no idea what I'm doing, being a journalist doesn't even seem realistic any more.

And that's the funny thing about dreams, isn't it? They rarely seem that way.

I spent the entire day, juggling with this, finding the reason why I felt so conflicted anyway. Maybe it has to do with the fact that I like to read. Immerse myself in the stories of other people. And when you hear so many wonderful and inspiring things happen to all types of people, you can't help but feel that you want a taste of that too. A taste of every single flavor.

I also remember waking up a few years ago and realizing that one day, I'm going to die (morbid thoughts for a pre-teen to have, I know). I feel like George Zinavoy in the movie The Art of Getting By. But instead of the awareness of my morality making me feel like nothing matters anymore, it's pushed me to believe that everything does. I feel like the clock keeps on ticking and I barely have enough time to make something of myself before it runs out.

I wonder what my parents would say if I told them this. How I have all these little dreams in my head, that conflict with one another too often to be plausible. My Dad would probably be the voice of reason. He doesn't mean to be cynical or harsh when he says things like that, he's just realistic. "Noone can be all of those things," he'd probably say.

But can noone really? Can't someone be able to do all those amazing things?

Can't that someone be me?

That question lingers for a long time in my head after I snap out of one of my 'trances'. I take a deep breath and try to shake off that manic buzz.

Maybe, I manage to convince myself sometimes. And when I do, I find myself sound asleep.

-- Karin Novelia, Hopeless Dreamer

Off The Grid: Day 1

I've had a pretty productive day today. I went swimming the evening prior, which has left me pretty wiped, but I still managed to wake up slightly early and stretch this morning. I had a light breakfast and spent the morning alone, as my Mom went out to pick up my Dad from the airport. I was happy to see him home. He looked tired, but satisfied, just like he did after every trip. He told me stories, showed me some souvenirs. And like every trip, he brought home some chocolates :)

My Dad was pretty tired too and soon took a nap. I wrote and read and drew. It was nice. Having a whole day with no fixed schedule, I could drift back and forth to the little things I liked to do, not having to worry about time or motivation. And though many would prefer a relaxed day, not trying to doing several things before the sun came down, this leisurely-busy pace was perfect for me. It kept me occupied, kept me from being bored.

Going off the grid has proven to have its merits. I've barely touched my phone all day, which in itself could be called an accomplishment. I don't feel the need to check my messages or my Twitter or my Skype. And it's relieving in a way, not having to think about those social neccessities, even if just for a little while.

I've also put up the next chapter of one of my short stories here, in the previous post. It's not much, I know, but it moves the story forward a bit, and if anything, it's a start.

And I've come to fully realize how much I savour being alone. I haven't had a chance to breathe in awhile. Let's just hope I can collect my breath before I have to brave the waters again.

Thanks for reading!

--Karin Novelia

Death's Remedy, Chapter 1: The Man in the Wheelchair

Chapter 1

The Man in the Wheelchair

Remedy sat on her plain, white hospital bed hearing the faint conspiratorial whispers of what must’ve been her doctor and her mother by the door. Their silhouettes were outlined on the thin curtains that covered the glass that looked into her semi-private room.

But there was no mistaking that third shadow. A blurry mass of darkness that fluttered down the hallway slowly and silently, at ease with itself as it was unseen by everyone else— except Remedy.

“Hello there,” she said aloud to the empty air in front of her. “Have you come for me?”

The shadow had left her sight, making a decent way past her room. Once Remedy had chosen to speak she heard a soft hiss, not agitated like a cobra about to strike but rather one that sounded bored and curious. A gust of wind hit the room coming from no feasible point of origin, making the curtains sway.

Remedy continued to stare in front of her, as an entity she couldn’t quite make out appeared by the side of her bed. The air shifted and rippled, like mirage lines on a steamy desert day. The problem was that Remedy couldn’t see it, she could only sense its strong presence. And it wasn’t for a lack of trying either. No matter how hard Remedy tried to turn her head, her neck became stiff and simply wouldn’t move, as if it was part of the creature’s design to prevent itself from being seen.

“You might as well get it over with then,” she said. “I just got here though. Might be a relief to the doctors... This hospital’s full enough as it is without me hogging a semi-private.”

The harbinger of death let out a shrill noise. Remedy imagined that it was smiling, possibly laughing. They usually did when they talked to her. Just as suddenly as it had come, the shadow flew back into the hall and glided away.

It didn’t come for me then, Remedy thought. If not me then… who?

The sudden turn of the door knob pulled Remedy back into reality. A middle-aged doctor in his thirties stepped in with a head full of brown hair and a bulky body of tanned skin. “Remedy?” Dr. Gillian called for his patient’s attention.

“That’s me.” Remedy’s eyes met her mother’s for a moment. She walked in behind the doctor, smiling. But the smile that was on her lips did not reflect the sadness that was in her eyes.

“How are you feeling, dear?” Mrs. Letum sat on the edge of her bed and held her daughter’s hand. Remedy flinched and pulled away.

“I’m fine,” she said as she saw the concern creep on her mother’s features. “A bit dizzy, but fine. I’m feeling better though. Can we go home…?”

“I’m afraid we can’t let you leave, Remedy,” Dr. Gillian said. “Your condition turns out to be a bit more severe than we thought.”

Remedy’s eyebrows rose in confusion. “I told you. I just... fell down the stairs. Did I break something…?”

“Well, you said yourself you weren’t sure why you fell down the stairs. Your mother said you’d been pale and faint these past few days and we did a blood test to make sure. And the results… came back as Hodgkin’s Lymphoma.”

The blank look on Remedy’s face showed no reaction. The doctor felt an explanation was in order. “It’s a type of…”

“Blood cancer.” Remedy turned to her mother and gave a dismal smile. “Like the one Grandpa had.”

Mrs. Letum’s grip on her daughter’s bedside tightened and her face blanched. She broke their meeting gaze and stood up, wandering to the open window that looked over the back lot of the hospital. Dr. Gillian watched her reaction curiously, but decided it was not his place to inquire. He took up the seat Mrs. Letum just left and leaned towards Remedy.

He spoke in a gentle tone. “I understand how this might come as a shock. But there are treatments available for this disease. If you’re feeling better, we could discuss which could be best for you with your mother. We can find a way to cure you. If you need to talk about this with someone we could call in a counselor and —”

Remedy gave an airy nod as she inched her way off her bed. Her head felt a little light and her leg still throbbed from her fall, but otherwise she felt fine and strangely alert. She could hear a crash come from a room somewhere down the hall and approached the door.

“Remedy,” John called out to her, grabbing her lightly by the shoulder. “Please come back and sit. We still need to talk about a few things…”

She simply shook her head and shrugged John’s hand off when another crash, louder this time, caught his ear as well. John sidestepped in front of Remedy and came into the hallway, seeing a few nurses rushing into said room presumably taking care of some patient. As another doctor came up to John for a consultation, Remedy slipped past him and ran towards the room.

Remedy saw an old man with cobblestone grey hair and tanned skin, sitting in a wheelchair. He seemed angry, shouting at the nurse who tried to placate him, pushing him back down every time he tried to get up on his feet. A monitor and an IV stand were on their side on the floor, having been knocked over in his rebellious attempts.

“Let me go!” he said in a voice that was heavy and scratchy after years of use. “I need to see her!”

As Remedy kept her gaze on the floor, she noticed something out of place. The number of shoes was odd. Mathematically speaking. She saw the white sneakers of the nurse peeking out from his blue scrubs and snuck inside a little further to see if she could find the pair of the old man’s slipper. When she reached a vantage point that could see to the other side of the bed, Remedy gasped as she saw a stub of flesh for his left leg, being cut off by the knee as opposed to seeing where the rest of his leg was supposed to be.

That was the last Remedy could see as a firm hand pulled her by the collar and back into her room. She looked up to the face the hand belonged to and saw her mother, stoic and quiet as always. “You shouldn’t wander off in a hospital like this. You might catch something.”

“Something worse than cancer?” Remedy mumbled just loud enough for her to hear.

Remedy lay back down on her bed, staring at the faded white ceiling as her mother and Dr. Gillian discussed treatment options. The mention of chemotherapy made her eyes flick to them every once in a while, but she was too immersed in her own thoughts.

Her mind couldn’t stop thinking about the man in the other room. The one who seemed so upset to find himself in the hospital in the first place. Not that Remedy couldn’t relate to the feeling. He however was more than upset. He was furious, practically volatile. He had cuts on his face and arms, bruises on his neck and legs. He looked like he had been in an accident. He and someone else.

Remedy recalled the amputated leg and shuddered. She saw that by his feet was a black cat. One with sharp claws and wide, mesmerizing green eyes. It turned to Remedy as soon as she came, and it let out a sound that was familiar and terrifying. It let out a soft hiss.

“That man’s going to die soon,” she thought aloud, making her mother and John Gillian freeze mid-speech.

Off The Grid: Day 0

As the title suggests, I've decided to go off the grid. Not really cutting myself out from the outside world, per se, just minimizing the major distractions namely, the internet. No Twitter, no Skype, no Whatsapp. If any so called 'friends' feel a reason to reach me, then consider this a test of your resourcefulness.

Why? I haven't been feeling like myself lately. Actually, just ever since I got back from this 'outbound/retreat' thing I went on with my fellow Scholars. That story gets a bit complicated and for once, I feel that writing my sappy feelings down will not help me at all. Also, the date of my departure, which is actually just a month away, looms nearer and I want to make sure that I get my act together before I leave.

So I've decided to just take a step back and clear my head. I need to channel my emotions some other way. There's this fog that's just settling in. Like I have this gloomy premonition that things are about to go south. It's probably just me being my usual over-thinking, over-analyzing self, but I want to get all of those anxieties off my chest, as soon as possible, because... it doesn't feel great.

And holidays like these -- when Dad's off to work, the siblings and friends are off to school, and Mom spends most of her time outside of the house -- just feel like someone's decided to hit the pause button on my life. It's frustrating. The boredom begins to settle in and it's stifling. Suffocating. I'm waiting for something to happen, waiting for my life to begin again. And I can only restrain myself from flipping tables when there's really nothing I can do to kick start it.

Don't get me wrong, I don't just sit at home and do nothing. I promised myself to be a bit more productive while I'm in this little time bubble, and I think I've done a pretty good job at that. I've taken up quite a few hobbies (and am planning to start a few more -- call that obsessive, but I've never been good at just settling for one thing).

I'm still (trying my best to keep on) exercising. Though with Dad jetting off half way across the world, having no jogging partner has halted that front, but stretching and floor exercises have become a part of my daily morning regime. I've taken up drawing, which hopefully I'll get good at over time. I've even taken up knitting (for purely fangirl-ish reasons -- don't laugh. I am not investing in a future where I am old and knit alone with only my cats to keep me company -- though cats are awesome) Okay, wandering....

I've also spent a lot of time soaking in culture. I've watched a lot of TV shows, and a few BBC documentaries. I've been reading, quite a lot, I've even got my nose buried in this history book. And expanding my music tastes as best I can (though honestly, my amount of downloads is starting to become concerning).

But there's one thing that continues to elude me. One small little hobby of mine that continues to slip away from me, no matter how hard I try to recapture it: writing. I did just painstakingly write out half of the next chapter for a short story I post here, so let's call that progress.

To keep the muscle well-toned, I decided to include one exception to this off-the-grid premise: I am to post at least one blog entry per day, for the next 30 days or so before I leave, talking about anything and everything I feel like writing about.

I feel relieved now. Something about writing down your plans, your dedications, makes it seem set in stone, gives it a sense of finality.

So keep your eye on this blog. Hopefully, the magic will happen and I'll come up with something worth reading.

--Karin Novelia, Honorable-Blogger-Turned-Reluctant-Recluse

Postal (Chapter 1)

It's seems like I've gained a few more readers for this blog. Special shoutout to my fellow 2013 Scholars, you're kind comments have completely rekindled my love of writing and I can't wait to get to know you guys more for the next few years :)

Here's a short story I've written ages ago (completely different from the ones already posted -- my mind is just filled to the brim with half-baked ideas) so instead of letting it gather dust on my desktop, I decided to share with you all. Also because a certain someone insisted I continue with my short stories (yes, Julius, this means you).

So enjoy! :)

---

Postal



The soft jingle of the bicycle’s bell echoed in the still, early morning. Speeding off like a bullet, the little boy mounted on top of the bike stopped pedaling as he reached the slope and went downwards, letting gravity supply the momentum.

He had always loved the hill-like roads of Ashenshire. The feeling of going up and down, against and with gravity, made his heart pound. Sometimes if he rode fast enough the tires of his bicycle would float a few inches off the ground as he glided over the top of the incline and for those few seconds before they came back down, it felt like he was flying.

An old canvas satchel was swung around his left shoulder, a slightly bulkier and rectangular one seated on the basket of the bike. He wore the clothes of any young boy — a pair of jeans, a fitting tee, and to cope with the cold rainy season, a pair of Wellington boots and a jacket. A grey denim beret rested at a slant on his head, tufts of wild, curly, chocolate brown hair peeking underneath.

He pulled back on the bike’s brakes and screeched to a stop in front of a small one-story house. He set up its stand and walked to the front porch, rummaging through his satchel.

Most people would think he was one of the newspaper boys, doing his rounds but the fact was, he was not. In his own eyes especially, the boy saw what he did every morning as a matter of grand importance. He didn’t have the responsibility of delivering news of the world to people’s doorsteps, most of which had nothing to do with him or attracted his concern. His duty was to help people sustain their connections and relationships with each other, be a bridge that relayed communication. He delivered their mail.

He pulled out a small bundle of letters, some thin, some thick, some small, some wide, but all of which were addressed to a Mrs. Hansten. The lad walked cheerfully up the steps and bent down onto his knees in front of a white, flower-patterned door so that his eyes became level with a metal, gold-painted slot. He began to slide the post through it when the door suddenly swung back, the appearance of a slim figure sending him tumbling backwards, landing on his bottom.

Mrs. Hansten in her blue cotton bathrobe was equally surprised and called out, "Alfie! I thought I heard someone coming. Heavens, dear, you scared me out of my wits!"

"Sorry, Mrs. Hansten," Alfie replied politely. "I didn't mean to scare you. I just wanted to deliver your mail!" Alfie held out the letters for her to take.

The old woman gave a small laugh. "Of course you are, dear. Why else would you be here?" Mrs. Hansten undid the rubber band and quickly glanced at the letters taking on a slight look of distaste. Bills, Alfie reckoned. Her expression suddenly turned to one of pure delight once she got to the bottom of the pile and Alfie personally knew it was the letter she waiting for. A letter from her son.

Alfie smiled inwardly. "Well, then, I must get going! Post to be delivered and such." He turned on his heel and began to set off.

"What's the rush, Alfie? Come inside and have a nice cup of tea, it's almost freezing out here. You're awfully early as it is."

"Couldn't sleep last night, I'm afraid," Alfie shared. "Not to worry, I'm perfectly fine! Early morning's the best time to deliver the mail, before anyone's awake. Imagine someone waking up and seeing they have no mail!"

"Oh, that would be tragic!" Mrs. Hansten joined in with slightly exaggerated shock.

"Maybe some other time then." Alfie had kicked back the stand and settled down on its leather seat, checking the next address on his delivery route. "Good day, Mrs. Hansten!" he greeted over his shoulder as he pedalled away.

"Good day, Alfie!" Mrs. Hansten smiled fondly. The boy was always a breath of fresh air during his stops. And such a kind heart he was, delivering the mail without asking for a single penny as payment.

She gently squeezed the yellow-enveloped letter in her hand. It was postmarked yesterday and without the local mail-boy's help it surely would've reached her much later.

In all honesty, his visits made her rusty soul feel less lonely, not that she was the kind to ever admit she was. Now impatient with anticipation she crudely ripped the envelope and unfolded the letter.

I'm coming home soon, read the first line.

And maybe Mrs. Hansten would not be so lonely anymore.

Both Ends of the Same Spectrum

Recently, I read a really insightful book called Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World that Can't Stop Talking written by Susan Cain.

(Coincidentally, the only reason I know about the book was because she was the first person I watched on TED, a conference where people discuss ideas. It's pretty cool, so if you feel like being inspired visit the TED website here).

The book is psychological non-fiction, based on Susan's intensive research about human temperament, mostly focusing on the terms introvert and extrovert. Susan has observed that there's a phenomenon she's called the Extrovert Ideal where the outgoing, loud, gregarious types are more favored over the cautious and contemplating.

In this modern age of media and competitiveness, there's sort of this need to 'self-promote'. You need to show off all your good qualities, so people can see them. People won't really take the time to find out what's lying underneathe, you know? And I get why that is. But the "Extrovert Ideal" as Susan explains can also be a double-edged sword.

Now, just to be clear, this book does not glorify introverts and belittle extroverts in anyway. In fact, Susan discusses the pros and cons of each side of the spectrum, and adresses the fact that there is a sense of favoritism leaning towards extrovertism, making the benefits of introvertism feel overlooked, challenging us to rethink our paradigms and shift them into a more open-minded direction.

This isn't really a book review. I'm not going into detail about what Susan Cain wrote, I just want to share my own thoughts on the subject, focusing on the introvert side. (I do think it's a really good book, so satisfy your curiosity and read it for yourself!)

Labels can be a bit of a scary thing, especially when there are negative connotations attached to them. So as I read Quiet I was excited and apprehensive at the same time. I felt like I could relate to the book. Susan shares so many experiences, stories she gathered from other people, some she experienced herself, about people just like me (quiet, reserved, the-always-stuck-in-their-heads type). And in each of those experiences there's this feeling that being that way (which for us is simply being ourselves naturally) is something that's discouraged, frowned upon.

There were times in the book when I smiled and thought Hey, I'm just like that! and times when I frowned and wondered Is that how people see me?

The problem is, that statistically one half to one third of the world's population are introverts. Like that quiet, smart kid that's sitting in you class ace-ing tests? They're probably an introvert. And you know what? They're probably getting bullied and made fun of too.

And that's really heartbreaking. Sure, they may be quiet, but being quiet doesn't mean someone isn't brilliant. They might have a hard time getting their ideas out there, or making sure their voice is heard, but that might be because there's never anyone around who's willing to listen.

People like that usually think before they speak. They have inhibitions which may seem like a disadvantage, but sometimes that cautiousness comes in handy in avoiding possible mishaps. But it is also does quiet thinkers who have a lot to contribute in the world. Think Vincent van Gogh and Albert Einstein. They didn't have their Eureka! moments at a pool party, hanging with the gang and socializing. They retreated into their minds and simply thought about things. You may not hear much during the process, but once introverts are sure with what they have, you can bet that the product of their thoughts is pretty damn amazing.

  

One aspect of the book that unnerved me was the fact that temperament is almost something genetic. The way you were born (like how sensitive you brain system is) can deeply influence how your basic instincts and personality is. I suppose some people can call that a relief. I am the way I am because of genetics. But it also seems to chuck our whole 'free will' philosophy out of the window. Like what if I don't want to be an introvert? Why can't I be peppy and loud and outgoing like others are? Because of genetics?

The book clearly underlined that though there is a acknowledgable scientific foundation to the formation of temperament, a lot of other variables such as the way you grew up, your environment, and yes, your choices will add up to who you are.

Lesson: No matter what anyone says, you can change yourself for the better.

Another heart-breaking point was seeing how people who were introverts at heart, had to become pseudo-extroverts, just to fall into the mold of the Extrovert Ideal. I do realize that being quiet all the time, doesn't do you any more good than talking too much does. There are times when you need to stand up and speak your mind, so others can hear what your thinking. There are also times when you need to step back and think, because charging ahead might cause you to crash.

But if you constantly have to go out and do something which doesn't come naturally to you, without letting anyone see your other side than isn't that the same as pretending? Lying to yourself, not being who you really are?

The problem is that introverts are being shamed into acting like extroverts. Some people feel like being quiet, means that there's something wrong with you, so does who naturally are, question themselves, try too hard to change. Some are even see as depressed or retarded, in need of therapy or medication.

Typical for human beings to see the different and outside-of-the-norm as mental illness, huh?

Some people think I'm quiet. Okay, I won't deny that because that's true. But when people use that against me and label me as 'anti-social' or 'arrogant' by jumping to conclusions it... It doesn't feel great. I feel like I'm being judged before I'm even presenting myself, and my instinct to that is to pull back, shy away...

And that's just really frustrating. Because I know that I'm not always what people make me out to be. I am so much more than they think or see. I can be loud, I can be weird, and I can be soooo lively around other people. But only if I feel comfortable with them, which might take a while.

It's sad to think that most people don't bother to look past those first impressions.

Which one was I then? Introvert or extrovert? Of course, noone can be a pure introvert or extrovert.

I can honestly admit I've been having a bit of an identity crisis lately for the past few years. It's like everytime I wake up I have an idea of who I want to be today. The cheery up-beat me that's gonna enjoy school and learning like she used to. Then there are the days I can't help but be the quiet, thoughtful me who over analyzes everything and can never seem to feel good about herself.

I think of myself as a walking mass of contradictions. There are a lot times when I confuse myself. I'm not really sure which of those sides are the real me. Sometimes I convince myself "All of those sides are you" and just confuse myself even more. But can a person really be so optimistic and brooding at the same time? Can a person really be so impulsive and cautious?

I've come to realize that I don't really feel the need to pick a side. I am sometimes one or the other and sometimes I can be both ends of the spectrum.

So here's what I think. Labels like introverts and extroverts, can be useful. They can help us understand who we are a little bit better so we can live our lives in way that's compliments that. But if you jump to conclusions and just tack them on so carelessly, then that my friends, is called prejudice.

So don't assume you know everything about someone. We are very, very complicated and cannot be summed up by a few trivial words. People are complex, so much bigger on the inside.

Even though you might be one over the other, just remember that basically we all exist on that same spectrum. Deep down, we are all the same.

Right now, I can't think of any other word that best describes collectively who I am other than this: me.

I. Am. Me.

One of a kind. And so are you.

So no matter how alienated you feel, no matter how different the world perceive you just remind yourself: I am me and noone else. Noone else can be me.

And believe me when I say, you can be so damn brilliant.

Thanks for reading!

-- Karin Novelia, Being the Best Me I Can Be

The Essence of Dreams (A Book Review of The Night Circus)

*May contain slight spoilers

What are dreams but mere ideas? Ideas that take up a life of their own, growing in proportions, intensity, detail. The are the fruit of imagination, the culmination of what our subconscious mind ponders on. But the experience of a dream -- in our heads, or even in our sleep -- can't stand true in reality. Like two sides of the same coin, they are distinctively different, yet sometimes impossible to discern.

The Night Circus, a novel written by Erin Morgernstern brilliantly blurs the line between dreams and reality. It is a story about magic, a game and the attraction between two magicians caught in the middle of it all: Celia Bowen and Marco Alisdair, two proteges of two very different magicians.

Celia is the daughter of Hector Bowen, who passes his powers off as simple illusions, perfoming magic tricks in stages across a number of countries as Prospero the Enchanter. Celia comes to him unexpectedly, dropped off to him after her mother had committed suicide. He sees potential in her abilities straight away. He believe magic is something you are born with, a natural talent for those who are lucky enough to possess it. His methods are unorthodox, sometimes cruel in training her. He comes across as a very uncompassionate father.

Marco is taken under the wing of a Mr. Alexander, the enigmatic type of character, whose past and last name remains quite undisclosed to the reader. He believes magic is something that can be taught, and pushes Marco to read and practice in solitude albeit in very luxurious conditions.

The two master magicians, being 'close friends', make a bet; a dangerous one they have made before and are willing to make again. They will pit their pupils against one another, in a clash of magic, to see who is better.

And so Le Cirque de Revěs is born. Being translated as The Circus of Dreams it "opens at nightfall" and "closes at dawn". Here, Celia and Marco use their magic to build the most impossible attractions. From a circus tent that holds a maze of clouds you can climb and jump on, a carousel of creatures that fly through the stars, what they create elicits awe and disbelieve from the circus-goers -- all of which are oblivious to the existence of magic.

What I love most about the book is Erin Morgenstern's very descriptive style of writing. All the magical details that come to make her creations of the impossible are fully conveyed to the reader. The book is beautifully written and jumps at the senses, from sights to smells, even tastes. It's the little things, the tiniest of details that really sticks into your mind, enhances the experience of immersing yourself in the prose that you feel like you're going through it all yourself.

Closing the book, feels like waking up from a dream. You know that it could never happen, but your heart aches and wishes that it could be somehow true.

Plot-wise, I think it was just perfect. I've heard some people complain about that the pacing is too slow, the story isn't that clever or well thought-out. But that's what makes The Night Circus so different from other books. People like a cinematic, action-packed, high-paced stories that tackles you. But The Night Circus creeps up on you, it's a story that is expansive and spans through many lives and many years that it cannot be told in a matter of days, and the sense of mystery and surprising revelations add to the tale's depth.

Some people have also been disappointed or felt misled at the term 'duel'. They thought of Harry-Potter-likes duels where spells fly and things erupt into chaos. What they got though, was more of an duel of the mind. They're creativity and innovation skills are being tested not their strength. The rules of the duel are arbitrary and has one twist -- it doesn't end until one of them dies.

Then here are sub-plots, which introduce characters as enchanting and wondrous as The Circus itself, gives them a decent story, a sense of involvement and influence in the main plot that no character Erin has created can really be called 'minor'. There's the creative director of the Circus' design, the fashionista that coordinates the acts costumes, a clockmaker who makes the centerpiece item and even a child that sneaks into the circus grounds. The magic of the Circus touches them, drives some insane. All these characters are affected by Celia's and Marco's actions and are simply a delight to read about.

I rate the book at 4.5/5 stars. There were some parts of the story that did seem tedious, but I was already caught in its spell to think much about it. In a nutshell, The Night Circus is a gem of a novel. It's style is descriptive and magical. It may be slow, but that doesn't mean its a bad book. If you have the patience to unravel the story and undergo the experience, reading The Night Circus will possibly be the best thing you've ever done.

Magic is something we can all relate to. It's something that we want to see in our lives, some even crave a semblance of its power. We may not have magic wands or spellbooks filled with curses to cast, but we each have a little bit of magic in us. We have the power to magically imagine, to create things with our minds.

So don't ever stop dreaming. As harsh as reality might seem, there are some dreams that really do come true.

And if reality does get a bit too hard to handle, know that the gates of Le Cirque de Revěs are always open for you to explore.

'Till the next post!

-- Karin Novelia, Restless Rěveur