One year. This is the longest I've stayed in a different country. Even my second home, Indonesia, cradled me for just eleven months.
One year. Of snowy winters, delayed springs, hot summers, and chilly autumns. One year. Of climbing hills, riding trains, boarding coaches, going in and out of the country to see four new others. One year. Of meeting awesome people from different parts of the globe, making friends with wonderful beings I never expected I will find, falling in and out and in of love, with my studies, with myself, with the world. One year. Of learning, unlearning, and relearning. Of being humbled, being proud, being brave. One year. Of which the greatest insight would probably be what I wrote while inside the bus going to Brighton that 31st day of May. Between birthday well-wishes and end-of-term goodbyes, I welcomed the last year of my twenties with a gloomy note signed with hope. The words ring true once more as I struggle to finish this dissertation.
I cannot be great.
I do not and I cannot intend to be celebrated. I am not going to be a president, a motivational speaker, a leader, or a prominent figure. I will not have my name imprinted on the pages of history.
I live because I live. I live because I have a purpose. I live to suffer. There are times when I felt like giving up. And sometimes, I sincerely wish I could quit. I wish I could just be a normal person whose greatest worry is what to feed her family. But giving up is not an option when the only thing you can be is to be useful.
I will be useful. I am not alone. I am not special. But I cannot quit because one person less is one too many.
In a homeland besieged with struggles, where hope is a candle burning in a stormy evening, to be useful is the greatest, noblest thing one can aspire to be.
One year in UK.
Still trying to be useful.
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