Being a quiet person is something I have been doing since long ago. I think I was born with that character. A quiet character. Since childhood, I have been accustomed to diving into the pool of my own mind. Playing around there. Isolating myself from others. However, I was still in the playground with other children. I laughed with them, rode my bike to the outskirts of the village, or gathered under the hot sun along the beach. Playing cards and so on. Almost everything was fun as a child. Like other children.
But, basically, I am still a child who is involved in a lot of contemplation. I am a child who often steals time to enjoy his own world. Again, isolating himself from others. From the crowd. I am all of that. However, on the one hand, I can also get close to the crowd whenever I want. On the other hand, contemplating a lot makes my sensitivity rise earlier. I seem to be able to read other people's inner moods. Empathize and read their emotions. I am blessed with that. I think so.
Time passes. I am now a teenager involved in two worlds of student movements. However, I am still the same person I used to be. Building two worlds that could be very different. In my student world, I am a contemplator, an observator, and an observer involved with the dialectic within myself. Seeking solutions to worldly problems through Marx's sociological paradigm scalpel, just like the major I took. However, I am also an extrovert who needs energy from many people to be able to come forward, holding a megaphone on the podium and giving speeches about dystopia and justice from the East. In the crowd of demonstrators.
I remember that I had joined the most militant resistance movement on campus where I studied. Carrying a left-wing ideology, it was a movement that was most respected at that time. Both by "right" organizations and by the government, let alone the campus. Behind all that, for many people, I was an introvert wearing glasses who echoed the utopia of justice through anarchism. I was someone who lost faith in anything people believed in, especially related to the state and its unpopular policies. People close to me began to worry.
"You have to reinstall your thinking device, comrade. We have been alienated. Alienated by our own beliefs. For a thought that was created to free people from the shackles of what we consider obsolete, this Ideology has instead become a new shackle for us!" a friend tried to remind me.
I didn't care. I was still someone who walked defiantly with torn jeans, black and white sneakers a faded dark blue sling bag full of "Che Guevara" patches, and a clenched left hand punching the sky. I had time to think and understand the meaning of my friend's words, but I had buried the sentence. I didn't care. Nonsense.
"This is my life path. I have been saved by this. By what I believe in," I said, loudly and firmly. As if I didn't want to give in. Not even an inch.
Finally, slowly I started to become a "hater". I was angry at everyone. Angry at their verdict. Their gaze. I felt the most right. Everyone was wrong. I initially thought that I wanted to save them, but it was too late. I had to forget that. I didn't want to be a messiah for these fools. Slowly, I became a communist anarchist. I turned into a diligent reader of Rudolf Rocker and the most militant to defend every argument of his "Anarcho-syndicalism."
I am now becoming more and more difficult. I isolate myself. I am often trapped in my room. Staring at the walls of a 5x6 room full of graffiti. And books. And one day I fell asleep in between that. Maybe I was too drunk and woke up in the afternoon because the afternoon sunlight penetrated through the window, piercing me like a line of sword tips.
I'm bored. I want to find some snacks and treats for tonight. I go down the stairs of my apartment. Slowly, like walking between the dark corridors of life. Right at the end of the last staircase, a little girl with pigtails sat there. She looked busy with herself. I just realized that I have a neighbor. This is one of my neighbor's children.
When I was about to pass her, unexpectedly the little girl called me. I initially intended to ignore her until she finally called my name. Damn, I cursed in my heart. Since when did this little girl know my name. Very rude. I was forced to turn my head and try to smile. She smiled back at me.
"Here...."
Suddenly, she gave me some candy. I remembered that the candy was produced with unique words written on each shiny blue package. I was silent for a few seconds because I saw the words on the candy that had now moved into my grasp.
"Why so serious?" those words were accompanied by a smile emoticon that looked sincere. It seemed so relieving.
I don't know why, but in my heart, I smiled. After rubbing the little girl's head, so that her hair looked messy—she was angry and tried to kick me—I ran forward, disappearing across the street. But since then, I've changed. I've become a more peaceful person. I'm still an anarchyst—I mean, specifically in the world of writing—but I'm calmer now.
