Fear of working

Bismillah.

Dear Allah.

What if I don't wanna work?

...

People all around me saying no...you can't do that...it's bad for you...

Yeah, I know. I hate myself for it. But still, I want the same thing. I don't wanna work.

Then what do I want to do?

...

I don't know.

I'm happy with what I'm doing right now. Currently, I'm writing on a project, now it's reaching 70k words. I know, it's not much. Heck, I know, I'm a fuuing amateur, noob, beginner...call on me whatever you want. But I love it.

I love what I do. I love writing. Heck, even though people may dislike it. Maybe what I wrote doesn't make sense. But I like it. Even if sometimes I face writer's block. Even if sometimes I feel down because my story isn't like other box office pecah panggung story. Even if my characters aren't likable. But I stupidly fall for them. I feel for them.

...

Is it wrong?

Is it wrong for me to at least have something that I like to do?

Heck, I don't think I can like doing something this long. I maybe have interests in a lot other things, but mostly those interests just fade over time.

But writing remains.

So what if I like to write?

Let me blame my past. I took a fuuing Math course even though I like writing. You know what, I listed English as a first choice when filling up the form to apply for university, but my mom then told me to change it to Physical Sciences instead.

Heh.

I don't blame my mom. If I want to blame someone, it's most probably be myself. Maybe I'm not stong enough with my conviction. I didn't tell my mom about my interest. I'd just listen to whatever she said like a good daughter I am.

Hell, a good daughter? Now that I'm not working and fuuing lazying around the house doing fuuing nothing...I know. She probably despises me. Fuu.

Children don't know their parents' feelings, huh? Don't think that the children don't feel hurt by not knowing your feelings.

Fuu. Whatever.

I love to write. So what. That doesn't change ANYTHING.

 I need to move out. Rent a room, make the room absolutely mine. Fill it with a drum set, drawing tutorials and art supplies, access to internet for me to learn drumming, drawing and Japanese...writing as a hobby...

But first I'd need to get a job. Just being a cleaner is enough. Provided I don't have to drive to work. Even better if I could walk to my work place. But as a woman it might be hard. Fuu.

Ughhh. Even applying for a cleaner job is fuuing frightening? Why???

I'm afraid of getting rejected.

Getting rejected outside and even inside the house...somehow makes you feel like you could slice a knife on your arm, right? Then you watch that red blood flows freely down your white skin...it almost tempts you to lick it.

You'd feel happy.

Because at least with that cut you can finally express the pain inside. The pain is physicalize, if that's even a word. And a physical pain is something others would worry about. They don't know anything about the pain inside. They can't see it.

They can't fuuing see it.

But what's the need for that, right? Why would they need to see the pain inside? Would they care? Yeah, I know, I absolutely know that they have pains inside, too. So why would they care? They have their own problems they need to solve. Why would they care about others?

Fuu.

I wish I could crumple this stupid fear I'm feeling, crush it down under my feet and stomp on it like a crazy butch. Then I'd stomp out, go apply for that cleaner job and fuu them if they still reject me.

Then I'd quietly slice my arm inside the toilet and let the blood flow with a snicker on my lips.

...

God.

God.

God.

Oh Allah.

I don't know.

I don't know a thing.

You know everything.

God.

I don't even know what should I ask from You.

Lemme just...

Lemme just ask for Your help.

Is that okay?

I...

I don't know.

I'm just a fuuing stupid human being who isn't appreciated.

Heck, maybe there's even not a thing in me that could be appreciated.

...karappo.