Now—
I stand in a quiet hour,
not knowing what to do,
hands empty,
mind wandering through unfinished roads.
Maybe many orders will come one day,
lined up like blessings at my door,
and I will earn enough—
money, salary, gaji—
enough to breathe without counting.
But now is not that time.
Now is the lesson between storms,
the pause that feels like falling behind,
the space where patience
is the only work I understand.
I wake up late—
as if time slipped past me on purpose,
and then the day arrives
like a train of misfortune,
loud, unstoppable, unkind.
I couldn’t make it to the factory.
I sit—
and being seen sitting
feels heavier than working.
Because stillness is judged
when survival demands motion.
They say: help others.
So I try—
but even my effort gets lost,
delivering the wrong order
to the wrong place,
like my steps don’t yet belong to the path.
The road stretches too long,
each second pulling at my confidence,
each mistake echoing louder
than all my quiet intentions.
Still—
somewhere inside,
a small voice refuses to disappear:
Hope.
Hope that God is watching,
even in these tangled hours.
Hope that this confusion
is not the end,
but a beginning disguised as chaos.
Maybe later—
yes, maybe later—
everything will fall into rhythm:
my work steady,
my mind clear,
my steps certain.
For now,
I hold on to patience
like it is already a form of success.
And even if I don’t know what to do—
I am still here.
Still trying.
Still becoming.
.jpeg)
