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I often wondered, how will my life be if I was born and raised in a more developed country. A place where people go-to for the hopes of a better life. A country so famous with the so-called opportunities people starts associating it with dreams. A country called the United States of America.

Just for context, I’m a 30 years old, straight, cis male, Yemeni descent, and a 100% full-fledged Indonesian. I’ve been working in the game industry for nine years. It’s an industry where most of the opportunities are happening in either North America or East Asia. Being in this industry in a country where the industry is almost non-existent is not an optimal way to live. …


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Pertanyaan kenapa hal ini bisa terjadi cukup sering menghantui saya, karena kalau dipikir-pikir secara subjektif, Digimon jelas memiliki anime dan dengan cerita yang lebih dalam dan juga yang lebih bervariasi. Namun dengan tema dan konten yang lebih berisi ini, tetap saja Digimon selalu dipandang sebagai yang kedua jika dibandingkan dengan Pokémon.

Kira-kira apa saja alasannya? Saya mencoba untuk mengumpulkan argumen-argumen yang mungkin saja memberikan jawab untuk pertanyaan ini. Tanpa panjang lebar lagi, mari masuk ke pembahasannya.

Waktu rilis

Argumen yang satu ini bisa dibilang merupakan pendapat yang paling bisa diterima, mengingat menjadi yang pertama selalu bisa menguntungkan kita, dan kalau kamu tidak bisa menjadi yang pertama, setidaknya jadi yang lebih baik. Pokémon bukanlah pertama dengan unsur mengumpulkan monster, mengingat seri Megami Tensei saja pertama dirilis pada tahun 1987. …


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I slapped the table with excitement. The Writer looked up from the book she was reading, a bit surprised, but I failed to care. “Last night was amazing!” I told her excitedly.

“Oh, you finally did it!” She put down her book. For her, her friends’ stories are always better than any fiction ever made. “After so long!”

“YES!” I almost yelled. A couple behind The Writer looked over to me, clearly pissed off that I disturbed their date. Whispering a timid apology, I quickly sat down and leaned to lower my voice. “It felt sooo good. …


Sunday morning 9 am
All by himself
He woke up in his room

Last night was okay
Another night where he met people
A normal weekend before the lazy afternoon

Sunday morning 10 am
She woke up next to someone she just met last night
It was a room in an apartment new to her

Last night was great
Another night where she met new people
An escape she enjoyed but starting to ponder

Sunday morning 6 am
He woke up inside his car
With sweat and messy shirt

Last night was wild
Another night where he lost himself to so many unknown people
A habit that always help him to feel like a total…


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It was a Friday evening. I was talking to a friend … no, consulting would be the proper word here. I made a mistake, and as usual, it was a mistake that’s caused by the words I chose. It was a problem of communication. Old news.

It took some times, but after things calmed down a bit, we continued to talk. It feels more like talking to a psychologist than chatting to a friend (which makes me feel endlessly indebted to this person).

“It’s stupid you know,” I told my friend, “a person with such horrible skills in making deeper connections with other person, is making a game about helping other people only with words and drinks.” …


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“The usual please,” that was my first word to the bartender as I sat down on my favorite spot.

“Coming right away,” the bartender answered, immediately preparing my order.

There were only four people in the bar that night. Me — the regular guy that visited this bar at least three times a week, two women who talked in a very hushed voice, and of course the bartender who’s also the owner of the place.

I looked at the girls, silently judging their existence in the bar. There were a bit too many drinks on the table for two women to share. …


Everyone has their own way of coping with their problems. Some people smoke, other drink, while some other sleep around. I even know a guy who loved to drive to a coffee shop miles away from his office and home every day, just to sit, work, and see random people in the cafe to cope with whatever he’s feeling at the time.

I also have my own way of coping with my problems. Something other people might find weird, a bit too complicated, or even a borderline criminal act.
Simply said, my coping mechanism is making up stories. Not as simple as writing something and posting it online. …


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Sketches by Brigitta Rena (Instagram/Twitter)

“It happened again,” I told her as I exhale the cigarette.

“What?”

“I took the train once to get here and fell in love twice.”

“Not this again,” she responded with the face of someone who wants to put out her brightly lit cigarette on my face.

“I just can’t help it.”

She said nothing.

“It’s way easier, you know? Seeing someone from afar, putting your fantasies about how he or she lives, ignoring the fact that what you see is not how they really are … It’s way easier.”

“You can’t keep doing this to yourself. You know you need something real, I mean, this would be a stupid suggestion, but you are still using that dating app, right? …


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People always asked me why I visited the same coffee shop almost every day. The baristas and securities thought I live or work nearby, I don’t. My friends thought I was going after someone who works there, I don’t. And my colleagues, they stopped asking about this habit of mine many moons ago.

I’m not even sure why I keep on doing it, but I guess there’s always a beauty in mundanity. There are stories that lie in the things that we do daily. Take this Friday, for example:

8.30 p.m. — I arrived at the coffee shop. I almost always ordered the same thing, but that night I wanted something a little bit different. …


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Illustration by Wilsa Pratiwi (Instagram/Instagram)

The day was hot, sunny, and humid, just like most days in Jakarta. I was standing inside a crowded bus without a properly working air conditioner nor proper ventilation, trying to keep myself productive in the unfriendly environment by reading my recently bought copy of Haruki Murakami’s while listening to the random playlist of my old iPod.

Despite the condition, I can say I was lucky because I was standing near the rear door of the bus, leaning my back on the side of one of the seat. …

About

Mohammad Fahmi

A boy trying to find himself and the others through words.

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