Happiness is A Butterfly

Lana Effing Del Rey has just released her 6th studio album; Norman Fucking Rockwell and I can’t decide which track is the best for midnight dating with my laptop – backsound of my writing habit. The theme she chooses this time is quiet wide and as deep as Ultraviolence but as sweet as Lust for Love. I would not say this is her best art piece, because she will release the next album in 2020 and counting, but I can say that she just gave birth to the best album of 2019.  The other prominent female artist, let us say Taytay who won many Grammys, also lately released her carefully produced album, but I can’t comment anything to it. I prefer Lorde or Melanie Martinez. My ears fancy dark music.

Back to 2014, the first time I discover Lana Del Rey. It was like finding gems in an abandoned mineral mine. Personally, I prefer those underrated artists, indie ones, to fullfill my playlist. At that time I typed “TOP 40 Track” and I found “Born to Die” within. The 60’s sound and style, featuring Renaissance chapel, tiger, flowery hair, and sultry vocal along trap composition served me the best. Then I got deeper to internet, finding the unreleased songs of Lana as Lizzy Grant, yes mention Video Games and Summertime Sadness.

I think the reasons why I love her music are poetic lyrics, angelic vocal, and depressive theme she delivers. During the darkest era of my life, I was a very sad person. I lost weight so much, could not catch sleep earlier, and I barely could enjoy any party. I lived at my friend’s house, in burden all the time, under pressured by many art projects, thesis, neglected by my family, and my long-lost sweetie boy came back to re-unite. It was a shame that industry did not publish plenty options of sad music. Mostly it was about reaching dream, party animal, and hip-hop songs were like nowhere to be found. Lana sings in paradox, sad words in up beat music, or vice versa. It’s like my two face personality, I performed the happiest in front of people but I cried while nobody was home. The wall, pillow, blanket, and cats were the witnesses.

Basically, I wasn’t come from lower class family. I still can remember those old fine days, I lived like a little princess. Then my parents separated, I entered the dark side, a lone person I become. I hid in my shell, effing myself most of the time. I was tiny, wearing glasses, never wear any make-up, hated crowded, and suffering phobia of public speaking. Sometimes, when the class villains had odds, they would love to making fun of me. I was underestimated and treated badly from the society. And now I am here, living a low income life, having debts, I must work 30 hours a day to create better future for me.

Reaching 29, I start to worry many things. Money machine, career, house, car and husband. I put husband at the last, because I barely never think about it within 24 hours. I don’t think there somewhere lives a man who can hold me without hurting me, physically and mentally. The emotional sides of me is too complicated for any living being. Beneath this mature attitude, I am childlike one. Behind my passionate working ability, I am sick of life. After sharing stuffs with friend, I worry about feedback. I am a Chinese porcelain. Beautiful but fragile.

I started my career as a writer, short story writer. Instead of upgrading my skill or producing more, I ended up working as filmmaker and several side-jobs to feed me. Sometimes, I envy them. I envy those fellow artists who can produce plenty pieces in a year, without thinking about making money cause parents feed them from dusk till down. I miss that period, where I could sit all day in my room, writing, watching movie, listening to music, daydreaming while father was outside, all steady to provide my wishes. It’s been three years since the last time I saw his face. No, I don’t want his money, I only need his presence. I wish I could be by his side in his final seconds.

These days, I hide from the flashy life. I hate publications, I hate social activity. I hate art exhibition cause I can’t find mine in between. I hate how society ignores my existence because I don’t follow their demand. I am not a production machine. I am an artist, I follow my heart. I never had stages anymore. No discussion to attend as speaker, no events to direct. Mostly, I enslave myself to the industry, I work anything as long as it can give me money to enjoy coffee. I feel like the poorer version of Lana Del Rey. A sad-lone girl far here, in the jungle of Makassar, a not so cultured city. My poems are all gloomy and often misunderstood. I talk lust, love, abusive person, dark paradise, suicide, and midnight cruelty.

Happiness is a butterfly, said Lana. Precisely, a caterpillar spends most of its life to be a there days old beautiful creature. then die. just die.