Last night’s news sat heavy on my chest. Twenty two lives lost in a Terra Drone office building fire, triggered by an exploding drone battery that spread faster than anyone could outrun. Just like that, an entire building burnt. My deepest condolences. Some news does not just inform you, it rearranges your breathing.
Stories like this make risk feel personal. Lithium batteries, drones, electric cars, all the conveniences we welcome so casually into our lives suddenly demand respect. I found myself spiraling into mitigation mode, imagining scenarios I never wanted to imagine. What if an electric car explodes. What if the fire spreads too fast. What if people do not know where to run.
So I did the only thing that calms my anxiety. I turned it into action. I sent a message to the management team of my co living property in Bendungan Hilir. Check the fire extinguishers. Run a fire drill. Make evacuation routes and exit signs impossible to miss. Nothing dramatic. Just quiet preparation. Because disasters do not send calendar invites.
Of course, the internet did what the internet does. Some people connected the tragedy to conspiracy theories, sabotage, secret recordings of vast palm oil plantations, shadowy motives. I do not know. It feels a bit absurd. If you want mapping data at scale, satellites exist. You do not need a drone and a tragedy. Sometimes an accident is just an accident, and grief does not need extra fiction layered on top of it.
This whole thing also reminded me of two lonely drone remotes sitting somewhere in my house. Their drones are gone. One disappeared in Greece, another vanished in Jagakarsa. Truly international losses. If anyone knows where to sell orphaned drone remotes, or wants to adopt one, let me know. Life has a strange way of slipping comedy into moments you did not invite it.
Other than that, today was painfully ordinary. So ordinary I almost forgot what I did. My husband mentored a few startups online. In the evening, he patiently accompanied our eldest as she worked on her personal statement for her dream university. Two months in and still not done. I am slightly unhinged about it, but trying to look calm. Trying.
Later, hunger won. I bought batagor from our usual spot. Same taste, same comfort, same paper wrapping. And somehow that mattered. After grief, speculation, anxiety, and unfinished dreams, late supper showed up exactly as expected.
Maybe that is how life keeps us going. It bows its head in grief when it must, then quietly hands us batagor and says, you are still here. Eat first.

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