shrine to my fetish

On the casual monotonous school day, I went to the café with Mitata, grabbed our latte and sat down for about 3 hours. We got so bored with campus; life can be less interesting when you live in backwoods full of English non-speaking mankind and insufficiently cute guys. I get gila *insane* when I’m bored, so then I supposed a little spin of conversation would crack me up.

Beppu in the sundown appear to be colorless, evokes us of our hometown which, by contrast, is more likely appeared multicolor, in fashion. Well, Jakarta is young, deprived of magnitude. People are one dimensional. Conversations are limited to parties, drugs, music, and fashion. This ain’t bull, Mitata eavesdropped by herself. The E! Channel is a conspiracy to make you stupid. Glossy magazines waste our precious trees and I hate malls. They should spend money on books, not the Gucci bags.

Oh, we had a blast bitchin’ about little miss rich & gaul *failed to get the perfect english word for it, sorry*. Fuck consumerism. I want widespread social democracy and monotheism. I want idealism and serenity and folk songs and vague poems that don’t rhyme. I want free passion, not polka dots and stripes.

I’d like to clarify that I have nothing against pop fare and all the people who is interested in fashion, but if you get to the sorry state of having to be lead into thinking what you like and what you don’t, or when you care too much about what is in and what is out, that is tragic. I am myself surrounded by people who are uniquely stylish, and there is a big gap between fashion and your own style. So we still don’t understand the identical outfits that flock the malls and clubs in Jakarta, and why these wear choices are based on somebody else’s view of what looks actually good. Expertise ain’t God.

Then you walk into a bookshop and everyone is crowded around the comic sections & the magazine stand. This is all mental masturbation. Quick, with temporary release. Nobody cares about feeding their mind, free writing, and art deco. Our generation should be making an obscure poetry, inventing a cure for cancer and creating world peace. I officially salute those great writers, artist, musicians, philosophers who originated new thoughts, new ideas, and new ways of thinking. They were the true rock and roll artist, not the strokes. They were the true bohemians, not sienna miller and mischa barton.

If I am hurting anybody with this comment, I suggest you to grow thicker skin.
I am one person, why do you care what I think?