Senandika

  Wherever You Are, That’s My Favorite Place I Don’t Have a Favorite Place, Only People Who Make Places Bearable People often ask about my favorite place, and every time they do, I feel like I am being asked to choose a childhood memory I never had. The question always arrives with such confidence. It appears casually in conversations, wrapped in nostalgia and travel brochures. Someone leans back in their chair, smiling softly, and asks, "What’s your favorite place?" As if everyone carries a sacred location tucked neatly inside their heart, waiting to be revealed like a secret passport stamp. I usually hesitate, not because I am mysterious, but because I am genuinely confused. I have tried to answer it honestly. I have considered beaches with sunsets that look professionally edited. I have thought about quiet cafés where the lighting makes people appear more thoughtful than they actually are. I have even entertained the idea that perhaps my favorite place should be my hometow...

  The Only Part of Me That Refuses to Let Go I recently learned that brain cells die, skin cells die, and even hair cells die, which would have been comforting if my fat cells had not apparently discovered eternal salvation. It began innocently enough, during one of those late-night internet spirals that start with a harmless question and end with existential confusion and a mild sense of betrayal. I was reading about how the human body constantly renews itself.  Skin regenerates. Hair sheds. Cells perish quietly and are replaced like polite tenants leaving an apartment without drama. Even brain cells, despite their reputation for permanence, slowly disappear over time. The body, it turns out, is less a monument and more a construction site. Naturally, this gave me hope. If everything dies and renews itself, then surely the parts of me I like the least would eventually resign and move on. I imagined my fat cells packing their microscopic belongings, handing in their keys, and ...

  I Went to a Funeral and Almost Laughed at the Thought of the Afterlife I Knew I Was Getting Older When My Calendar Started Filling With Funerals That realization hit me one afternoon while I was ironing a black shirt, wondering when exactly my wardrobe became so prepared for grief.  In my twenties, most of my formal outfits were reserved for receptions, awkward dancing, and pretending I understood wine. Somewhere along the way, the occasions shifted. The suits stayed the same, but the atmosphere changed. For a while, I told myself it was normal. I have always befriended men older than me. I liked listening to their stories, their half-serious advice, their complaints about cholesterol. When you spend your twenties and early thirties orbiting people who are ten or twenty years ahead of you, the math eventually catches up. I attended funerals during the COVID era more often than I want to remember. That period felt like the universe was aggressively updating its contact list. ...

  Girlboss yang Parkirnya Selalu Diantar Sopir Berumur Lima Puluh Tahun Sejak dulu aku punya satu kebingungan yang tidak pernah berhasil dijelaskan oleh algoritma media sosial, padahal algoritma biasanya tahu aku lebih baik daripada keluargaku sendiri.  Kebingungan itu muncul setiap kali aku melihat seorang perempuan muda, cantik, berpose di depan mobil Eropa berkilau, menulis caption tentang kerja keras, mimpi, dan kemandirian, lalu di akhir kalimat menyelipkan emoji api dan tas mahal.  Aku bukan tidak percaya pada kerja keras. Aku hanya bingung dengan kecepatan hasilnya. Aku ini tipe orang yang kalau kerja keras hasilnya paling naik berat badan dan lingkar mata. Jadi ketika ada bisnis yang katanya baru beberapa tahun berdiri lalu sudah bisa menghasilkan ratusan kali lipat modal awalnya, aku mulai merasa ada bab tambahan yang tidak dicetak. Dulu di tempat kerjaku, aku punya seorang klien yang cukup sering bertemu denganku. Awalnya hubungan kami profesional. Lama-lam...

   I Lived With a Retired Wolf Hunter and Thought He Was Lazy The Sleepiest Wolf Hunter I Ever Trusted With My Safety The first time I saw Martin, I genuinely thought my company had assigned me a decorative curtain with legs. It was 2012, and I had just arrived in Germany for work. The company had arranged a small house for me in a quiet area that felt too peaceful to contain any crime at all.  When I stepped out of the car, dragging my suitcase like a confused immigrant in a low-budget film, I noticed a long white shape near the fence. It was standing there with an expression that suggested it had already forgiven me for something I had not yet done. “That’s the guard dog,” someone told me. I looked at the dog. The dog looked at me. We both seemed equally surprised by this information. He was tall but strangely delicate, with long legs and an even longer face. His fur was white, soft-looking, and slightly wavy, like he had just finished starring in a shampoo commercial f...

  We Thought Teletubbies Were Normal Recently I noticed something interesting on social media. Apparently, millennials have collectively decided that Gen Z and Gen Alpha are being raised on “strange content.”  The word strange gets thrown around a lot, usually by people who once thought planking was a personality trait.  As a millennial myself, I was expected to nod along and say, “Yes, the youth are doomed.” Instead, I found myself staring at my screen thinking, ‘Have we met our own childhood?’ I grew up in a rural area in Indonesia, where television had two moods: grainy and slightly less grainy.  After school, I would sit in front of the TV with the seriousness of someone attending a spiritual ceremony. Doraemon was there. Hattori was there. These felt normal. A blue robotic cat from the future who pulls gadgets out of a pocket on his stomach is somehow considered reasonable storytelling. A ninja kid living secretly with a regular family? Acceptable. Nobody panick...