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The first-time corona out shined the rest of the world, I was in the middle of figuring out something. I find the question--the "what you want to do with your life"--is very adaptable. They world is changing and yet the question remains. It took a couple of turns and tolls. I am not even sure where I am now. But again, a couple of wrong turns tend to lead you to places you probably should have been from the first place. Too many quiet times can be too much for some people. I had my fair share on some of that. But during these lock-downs I've learned that the silence can liberate you. It forces you to listen because silence has its own voice. Sometimes, it fills you in with things that you don't want to listen because it's scary, demanding, and judgmental. But the rest of the time, the voice can be kind, tender, and loving. During this pandemic, I start to do my workout routine at 5am in the morning. Before this, I barely have one. Every time I tie my shoes for the run, the morning always starts with darkness--a complete darkness. But, its subtlety turns into something that always steady. Always there. The steadiness is loyal even though, it doesn't have reasons to be. We don't exactly have an extravagant view in Jakarta. But, it's still a view and I have reasons to love it. Sometimes I envy people with a better sunrise. But I guess it's all the same at some point. That tingling sensation that you feel in your heart when you see that sun can be exactly the same with those people who see the sunrise on the top of some mountain. It's the same sun and probably the same tingling sensation, but with a different twist to get there. In an everlasting changing world, I need something constant. And the sun is funnily always there. It whispers quietly, everyday, "Don't you worry, kid. I'll be here. I'll be gone at some point, but I'll be back. I always do." And that promise is somehow good enough for me. In general, all of these lock-downs tend to make me aware of my noetic freedom and the only reasonable thing that I can come up to express it is by writing. I never thought that I will miss that glaring sound of the street in Jakarta or how much I love writing. I sit myself down one day and I am typing and typing, writing and writing, and realize it's late and I haven't eaten anything. The ample time of idleness has been reminded me to appreciate some tiny details that I wouldn't be notice if I walk with the speed of gazelle. It's the sun. It's the street. It's the voice. It's you and it's the silence. It's an invisible artifact of your perpetually short-lived contentment. You're going to continue your day and your life with a pretend poise and a silicon happiness just to substitute that short-lived equanimity. But you will not replace it. You won't be able to. You might try with more work, more money, or more relationships. You'll be gone and you'll be lost. You'll be stranded and out of nowhere. And when it reappears, you might be confused. You'll reject it. You sense its familiarity yet it feels a little bit unknown--an alien. But, sooner or later, you'll find your way back. But you're going to be back with the same amount of wholeness and you'll be complete. And "enough enough enough" will be your new mantra. You'll be there, again. Just like the sun. And you'll whisper together, "I am back."

I laid there, wrapped in the soft embrace of my blankets. Pitch black darkness filled every corner of my vision, and my sense of self slowly melted away as I sunk deeper. I don't know how long I was there for, as time did not exist in that secluded space. All I remember is one moment I was asleep, and the next, I was awake. The layers and layers of coverings each peeled off, as I emerged from my lair. My eyes, adjusting to the light, travelled across my room, to the desk piled high with books I've never read, and to my plate of half-eaten pizza, until they slowly settled on the pair of dumbbells sitting innocently on the floor. These details combined and culminated into a monstrous emotion that wriggled deep inside me. Unproductivity. It had been weeks since the quarantine began, and my previous life of constant work seemed like if it had been a distant dream. And so as if to greet this foreign feeling, the fiery hot flames of motivation engulfed my entire being. My resolve was hard as iron, and I set myself towards changing my laziness. During my preparations, the image of the dumbbells flashed through my mind, and I grinned, for I had found the first step in my path towards salvation. It was morning, 6 AM. I had to decided to set a strict schedule for myself the night before, but instead of feeling the sharp blade of discipline, I instead felt the squishy bean bag of grogginess. Nevertheless, it was time for work. The morning air assaulted my senses as I stepped out, and yet the feeling of harsh cold needling my skin felt somewhat refreshing. Slipping into a pair of running shoes, I steeled myself for the upcoming journey. My feet bounced off the firm pavement, as my legs pumped in tandem. This was the first bit of exercise that I had done in a long time, and so accordingly, my body was dying. My view set straight on the ground, I played a game to distract myself from the pain. "You have to avoid the cracks, if you step on the cracks, the world will end." My suffering merely worsened, as the fate of the world was now added onto my burden. It continued for an unimaginable length of time, as my surroundings blurred into an unrecognizable mess. I had to stop or I would explode. Hands on my knees, I came to a crawl, and checked my timer through my muddled vision. 10 minutes. The eternity I experienced was summed down into 10 minutes. 600 seconds. The time it takes for a hot shower. The duration of a toilet trip. My perpetuity was equal to a toilet trip. My memory blanks after that, but somehow, I had gotten back to my door. According to my schedule, it was now time for some weight-lifting. However, as I started walking towards my dumbbells, with every movement my muscles groaned and my lungs screamed in protest. Clearly, any more exercise would turn my body into paste. The previously scorching motivation was reduced to a weak ember, flickering from the howls of my lungs. My resolve which seemed so impenetrable now seemed like a buttery caricature of Spongebob, with its many openings. What was I doing, and why was I doing it? "What's the issue with resting a little?" I asked myself, starting to gravitate towards my bed. I began to pull blankets over me as my motivation completely disappeared, "I'm just going to relax a bit." Familiar darkness wrapped itself around me, and I once again began my slumber.

Back in my Freshman year for high school, I decided to sign up for a sport. I chose Indoor Track and Field. You see, not everyone sees this as a sport because it's mostly running. It was more than a sport, it became my life. And after I went to my first Track practice, I thought to myself: "There's no way I'm coming back". Well, I ended up coming back and I'm glad I did. I went to Colonie Central High School and it was a decent school. It had your typical jocks, cheerleader squad, the brains, the emo kids and all in between. I was more in the "I knew most people but, I wasn't popular" type of deal. However, that changed when I joined Track. Everyone started knowing my name. Well, more of my last name because the coaches called you by your last name majority of the time. Running felt like second nature to me when I joined. It felt great. When I joined Track and Field, I went for the running part. You had Shot Put, Discus, Long and High Jump and there was another one I can't think of at the moment. However, they weren't for me. I went for the Sprinter part which meant short distance runs. They were: 55m, 300m, 400m, 4x200m, and 4x400m. So, my first practice that I could remember was a little tough to see where you stood. I ranked in the "Not very fast, not very slow" area. I was okay with that. We had practices 5, sometimes 6 days a week. Most people quit but, I kept going. I wasn't going to give up. My first Track meet was at Hudson Valley Community College. I was extremely nervous yet excited. My mom and little brother were there. It was great having them there for support. It energized me more. So, the coaches handed out sheets of what we were doing. I was doing 55m and 300m. That wasn't too bad. Usually, the meets were about 4 hours. Of course, mines were at the near end. Throughout the day, we had to keep moving and doing stretches. They were always on us about that but, they meant good. My event came finally. The 55m dash. I was so anxious about the whole thing. The adrenaline flushed through my body and oh boy, I was shaking. It was my turn to run against the competitors. The referee started talking. He said "On your mark", I got into the down position. Next, he said "Set", I got slightly up a little. My body was frozen, waiting for him to shoot off the gun. Blam! went the gun. We all take off running. My arms and legs were in sync and I was running pretty good. I came in second in that round. I was so glad that was over. Then, I had to do the same for my 300m run. I came in second for that as well. Now, it was over. At the end of the meet, the officials posted up the results of the whole meet. For the 55m, I actually placed third. For the 300m, I placed fifth. That wasn't bad for my first meet. That rush felt amazing. I couldn't wait for more. And they did. The meets kept coming and I got better. I was proud of myself of sticking to something that I thought I was going to hate. I always say: Give it a chance. If you think you're going to hate it, at least give it a try to confirm your theory. I never gave up and kept going. I ended up coming close to the best. I went to out of state meets and State qualifiers. It was the best decision I ever made in my life.

It was easy to get scared. When the darkness swallowed up the Earth, the night seemed to coat everything in a suffocating blanket of black, it was a simple matter to give in to the fear. What you did next was up to instinct and sin. The guilt and things best left buried in the deepest parts of the heart. The accusation on their faces was bad. The disappointment in Mama's eyes was a thousand times worse. And so you did it in the shameful, terrifying dark because at least there nobody could see the tears fall down your face. A glance out the window never revealed anything except what your mind created. The moon was hidden behind dense clouds, if it was there at all. No light managed to break through the black. No city lights, no stars, nothing. Endless miles of night that stretched into the distance, and suddenly you were outside and it's chasing you, don't turn back don't turn around no no no don't look at it keep running... And in the night you can't see anything, no way you can watch your step when you can't even see the hand in front of your face. So then your foot catches on a rock or maybe it's a stump, too dark to tell and you're falling and now it's there and the CLAWS NO STOP PLEASE And suddenly you're gone, nothing left but ash and bones and the hard piece of stone that passed for your heart. The wind sweeps you away, or rather what's left. The sun finally, finally breaks over the horizon and the day starts anew. Then you're back in your bed, soft and warm, and now you just have to get through the day, don't break under the stares. Then by night, you can try to fight off the monsters that lurk out the window alone.

When the alarm sounded, I wanted to continue sleeping. Instead, I slid out of the warm sheets away from the comfort of my husband's body; peeked through the venetian blinds; and noticed graceful flakes of pearly-white lace had dusted the tree-lined trails adjacent to my home. Even though the mercury hovered just below freezing, I knew today was the perfect day for a solitary winter run. So, I quietly donned my winter running clothes and headed downstairs. Daylight had not yet turned the slumberous, dark blue clouds to their morning gray, and—for a moment—I hesitated at my front door not wanting to disturb winter's peaceful silence. When I stepped outside, my warm breath mingled with the crisp, cold air as it stung my cheeks. As I began to run, my stiff legs begged me to turnaround; I ignored their cries knowing they would soon stop complaining. Only my footfalls broke the silence as the gentle snow crunched under my feet. As I ran through the woods that morning, nary an animal crossed my path; their tracks in the snow indicated that they had been here before me though. The nippy air frosted my breath, and soon my breathing mixed with my footfalls creating a rhythm. I ran effortlessly past fallen trees along the creek side with no thought of time or distance. I wasn't aware of speed either—just movement. I ran past an icy pond cloaked by barren, frost-covered trees trembling like skeletons in the brisk wind. Snow began falling around me making me feel as if I was running in a snow globe. Soon, winter's tranquility and purity enveloped me; time and distance became meaningless, and I imagined that the woods looked as it once did 100 years ago. I gazed into the distance; and for a brief moment, I thought I saw Henry David Thoreau standing outside his cabin near Walden Pond. He was not there, of course; and there was no one and nothing except for what was right in front of me—miles of glorious solitude. For years I've run alone along these trails in the woods—a quiet, almost sacred place every bit as wondrous as Walden Pond. Generally, the only sounds I regularly hear on these solitary runs are birds chirping; small animals collecting nuts; and my feet as they gently land on leaves, pine straws, or snow. I occasionally hear the pitter-patter of rain drops as they hit leaves and fall onto the underbrush and forest floor. Sometimes a light rain cools my perspiring body and soothes my spirit. Frequently, I immerse myself in my thoughts and dreams and feel invigorated. Other times, the solitude nourishes the seeds of stories germinating in my head. Here in the woods, though, solitude—as silent and powerful as light itself—forces introspection. So, I linger in the solitude emptying and quieting my mind; then, I let go of the world and my ego—journeying inwards. Here, I sometimes hear my inner voice whispering to me; I occasionally meet myself face-to-face and find the being within—the true self—that has been waiting patiently to be discovered. I continue running—grateful for the solitude and the balance I now feel. But at some point, I must turn around; follow my footprints; and return in the direction from whence I came. Reluctantly, I approach the end of my solitary run—not wanting it to be over. From season to season, I've run alone along the quiet trails in the nearby woods; and I've taken great pleasure in the solitude it offers. And to quote Thoreau, “I have an immense appetite for solitude, like an infant for sleep…” I discovered long ago that solitude is necessary for me, for that's where my creativity dwells. And I can no more live without creativity than I can live without sleep.