Collective Thoughts of Jun Imaginer #1 : The Beginning

26 days ago since my last post was posted as a digital imprint on the Post's homepage. Twenty-Six, the same number scribbled on the front wall of the 6x6 m building, one of the dotted dormitories in a straight line of 2 rows. Two levels of study in a period of six years. The same coincidence that I can still taste on the corner of my lips, the sweetness of the first kiss on the same day as my ex-girlfriend's first birthday.

Before my feet sink deeper into the quicksand of the past, I consciously divert this conversation to another direction so that this writing flows smoothly in one breath before I sip another half of the leftover milk coffee as a transitional pause.

^{Photo by Silviu Zidaru on Unsplash}

I have labeled this article Collective Thoughts of Jun Imaginer: think of it as a collection of Jun Imaginer's subconscious thoughts. I analogize the past series of events, which almost four weeks have passed, are like a clogged drain pipe due to the increasing amount of water discharge and pieces of garbage and sewage piling up.

Writing is one way of normalizing this sewer flow. The writing themes vary; research, experiences, fictional stories, daily journals, and so on. This time, I tried the theme of a collection of thoughts, which were authentic and pure original from the explosion of the atomic particles of the brain cells required by Jun Imaginer.

At one time, the trigger and fuel for me to write was an outburst of anger. If Jun Imaginary was a shinobi whose ninja path became Hokage, writing with an inner scream of rage fire was a forbidden method. Why not, this method has proven to be effective and efficient, but the side effects are like cancer that eats away at the host's organs from the inside until they are unable to move anymore, in this case it's not a genjutsu move, but just writing. The word "just" sounds trivial, I just replaced it with the weight of writing.

^{Photo by Joao Tzanno on Unsplash}

The first week, I was haunted by the noise in my head that haunted the worries that had not actually happened. Until the day of the decision came, that night I sat on a frail plastic round bench that had no back, surrounded by people who I deserved to call parents more than my age. The culture of our people whose pleasantries are convoluted to the hot ass like constipation. It's easy and good to get into the discussion point smoothly, I observe one by one those who take turns taking turns speaking, expressing a compelling point of view. Until it was his turn to speak. It wasn't just my voice, I was immediately confronted with the hope that I would make the final decision on where this deliberation would lead and where it would lead. At that moment, it felt like my body was shrinking, cornered by the sharp cynical gazes of the black shadows of giant beasts sticking out from behind their backs and their flat smiles.

I have made the decision even without the hammer hitting the mahogany pulpit table. Wisdom in decision making must indeed be paid for with sacrifices, time that is stretched as proof and sincere feelings that often whisper evil intentions that drip black spots of rusty sin if left to suffer in the heart like a ripe fruit at the end of an aging and withered stalk.