Becoming Fifi: Chronicle of Change - 01

February 7th

Dear Journal,

I’ve never really done this before, written my thoughts down and bared my soul on paper, but the life coach I've been seeing suggested I start. So, here I am, talking to you, Journal. Isn't it curious, writing in a book, to a book? Seems almost ironic to me.

My name is David Lubis, a 21-year-old Londoner, burger-flipper, amateur artist, and now diarist. My life coach thinks that penning my thoughts, feelings, and experiences will somehow magically make me feel less stuck, less like I’m trapped in a life that’s going nowhere. Worth a try, right?

I’ve been feeling quite low recently, Journal. It’s like I’m on a carousel, going round and round but not really moving anywhere. My job isn't something I enjoy. I flip burgers and soak in the oily fumes all day, every day. It's not exactly what I had in mind when I was studying art at university, dreaming of exhibiting my work in some contemporary gallery.

My parents, bless their hearts, supported me through my education and they’ve been nothing but encouraging. Yet, I can't shake the feeling of disappointing them. They had dreams for me, hopes, and here I am, living a life that doesn’t come close to what they had imagined for me. They're from Indonesia, and they worked hard to give me and my sister opportunities they never had.

The guilt, Journal. It's a gnawing sensation in the pit of my stomach, a constant reminder of unfulfilled potential.

But you're not just a container for my words, Journal. You're also a canvas for my illustrations. I will draw a picture with each entry, snapshots of my days, to capture memories in a different form. Today, it's a self-portrait of sorts. I sketched myself walking away from the park, following an enlightening conversation with my sister, Ani.

In the illustration, I've captured myself in an ensemble that might seem mundane but holds a peculiar importance to me. I'm wearing my favourite dark khaki pants that hug my lean frame just right, with just enough give to allow movement but not so loose that they appear baggy. A simple white t-shirt drapes over my torso, its fabric softened and its whiteness mellowed by numerous washings, bearing testimony to the many days and nights it has been my silent companion.

Over the t-shirt is my grey and black patterned hooded top, the fabric slightly frayed at the edges from constant use, the glinting silver zipper camouflaged amongst its background. It's warm, cosy, perfect for London's slightly chilly weather. To complete the ensemble, there are my old trainers - once a stark white, now faded to a comfortable grey, the once snug laces having taken on the ease of familiarity.

The pièce de résistance, however, is the black and white striped scarf wrapped around my neck. It's a dichotomy of patterns and simplicity that somehow embodies my personality. It was a gift from Ani last Christmas, and I absolutely adore it.

(See Illustration 01)

My attire might seem like a bit of a mess, but it's comfortable and it's 'me'. Clothes, you see, are a canvas, Journal. They have the power to reflect who you are, and I've always had a peculiar obsession with them.

Is it normal, this fixation on how people dress, how they present themselves to the world, this minute dissection of each component of their attire? Sometimes I wonder if my keen interest veers towards the abnormal. But then again, who's to define what's normal and what's not?

Perhaps this fixation on appearance is a by-product of my artistic inclinations, an unconscious habit that has been cultivated and nurtured over the years. Regardless, it is an integral part of who I am, something that I've always done.

Ani, ever the adventurous one, suggested that I take a leaf out of her book and go travelling, to experience something new and different. She believes it could open my eyes to new perspectives, inspire me to do more with my life.

"Remember, David," she said, "The world is an enormous canvas, waiting for you to fill it with your colours."

Can I do that, Journal? Can I abandon the familiarity of my life and just leave? Could the rolling hills of Tuscany, the bustling streets of Tokyo, or the serene beaches of Bali make me see things differently, feel differently about myself? The very idea seems intimidating, exciting, impossible, and plausible, all at the same time.

So, I turn to you, Journal. My first ever entry and it's full of self-doubt, uncertainty, and the terrifying prospect of change.

Welcome to my life, Journal. Here's to hoping you can help me make some sense of it.

Until next time,

David.