I’m sitting on the 16th floor of a hotel in Jakarta. I have a thin slice of the city on the palm of my hand. In each corner or a nook wherever I look I find life and a short story. It’s evening. The city takes few last short breaths before awakening the next morning on Monday. 

I hear somewhere near a lonely bakso salesman hitting the spoon on an empty glass to let others know it’s time for the last treat of the day. Traffic is still bustling on the highways somewhere on the horizon yet in a somehow slower manner,  as if the closing night brings a long awaited peace. The business centre before me, in far distance, full of lights, acts as a beacon and reminder to call for the undecided to prepare for a new week.

I sit here yet again after a longer while with a similar view on the city. A different man, a changed man. Jakarta, it’s been a while. I’ve experienced a lot of death and resurrection recently. Both in a literal and figurative meaning.

I stop thinking, take in the dense and wet air in my lungs and continue sitting in silence and gratitude.

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