A Silent Cry

Dear December.

At times my Daddy used to wake up in the middle of the night for a prayer, he'd beg in whispers, and it made me wonder. For our nation he'd rest his head on the floor, sometimes for minutes, other times for hours, while our government keep up with their cold shoulders, barely listening to the poors. So what for?

Not until I work in the system did I know, these people's lives are not more than an opera show, collecting money as if they have forgotten that what we have in this world- we only borrow, and Allah always watch His tiny human below.

But then again, is it for the money or the fame? Is it really about how much they gain? When people start to drag others into their game, only to later put them all to blame, weren't their hearts shaken from watching the innocents' future burnt to flame?

Dear, Daddy.

It is too much for my heart to take, could it be mistaken? Is this what's really happening now, our initial qualities have been broken? Where's the truth when you need them given? Why would they keep it hidden? Is this why God always give tests after tests to our nation?

Against their own will, they have to bear it all, doing nothing but good, now they have to watch their long-time career falls, only for those they respect so much, who ironically never give a fuck or such.

I'm crying my heart out, I will not hide away so people can see. These horrible creatures, greedy for cash and power, they disgust me. I can only use your way, Daddy, lifting both of my hands and pray, "Oh, Allah! Our God Almighty! Please help the innocent ones, and ease their pain away."

Dear, Truth.

Please come out soon. So I could close this year with a smile at noon.

8:39 PM, home at last.

We constantly nag to ourselves and to others about how we wish for a job that hypes us up so much in a point where we wouldn't sigh at the dawn of every Monday morning thinking, "Where are you, Friday?"

Not until recently I started to figure out that it's not about our jobs (since mine consists of: 20% of administration process that always seems to have a very short deadline, 10% of "yessir!", 40% of foreign policy, and 30% of pure laughter with friends because the ride is crazy- which is, of course, exciting!)

It's about these people who act like they're the only ones that need to be hurry in the morning (God bless them) and those who think they're the most tired ones in the evening (God bless me) that annoys the shit out of me every single effing time, both on my way to and from work; the type of earthlings you would meet (sadly, because it reaches almost half of the world population) every day of your life (even weekends!!)

God sure knows how to test His people. Oh, Jakartans, where did you leave your patience and manners at?

K.O in 3...2... *drops mic*

5:51 PM, breezy.

Oh, how he is so unaware, that the universe conspirates with these lyrics my heart writes for him most of the times.

How the sun gives him warmth in the cold morning breeze, how the sky paints its whole-self with amber when he walks out of the building at noon, and how the stars form beautiful constellations just for him to adore and to look at.

But how he is so unaware, he could only see them as a gift from someone else, another woman his heart longs for, and not as the universe's conspiration with me, the girl only whose name he knows.

2:39 PM, cloudy.

He's all the pauses: the almost, the in-between, the what-if; he's a regret, leaning in so close but still too far to be reached out just yet.

Will he get scared if he knows about my longing to touch? About the admiration, about how much?

He's lack of love, I'm out of luck, our words are overdue, and sometimes saying goodbye is way easier than to say "Me too."

6:11 PM, humid.

It was a mess.

There were thousands of words, spoken in various strings of melodies, all uttered together at once, creating a disturbing buzz in sync.

The small place filled with people passing by like a dark flash of rainbows, swiped the dusts off of the ground with their soles and heels as they move in a hurry, creating puffs of white among those tocks and thumps.

"Holy, and it's still Monday!" I lifted my chin up a little, only to see where the words came from.

Didn't figure it out in the end, but I answered him back in murmurs, "Same."

Amber

She was there, blocking the window, her silhouette looked like it was glowing while the sun behind her began to kiss the day goodbye. "Isn't it beautiful?" She asked. That was when I realized, she came to watch nothing.

She was the view.

The Fox and the Prince

So we didn't talk that night, we didn't want to make things worse than they already were. But among those comfortable silences, I knew. That I've tamed you and I'm forever responsible for what I've tamed.

I regret nothing.

A Girl Inside Her Box

I always say that I want a love that makes me feel like the Wonderland is brought right to my feet without the need to follow the White Rabbit down the hole, competing with the ticking clock.

I always say that I want to be grateful, the same way of how the lonely Fox felt when the Little Prince stayed, every day an inch closer than the day before until he was finally sure enough to tame his wild heart for him, opening the door and let him walk in.

But sometimes, when the stories end, the pages won't stop flipping back to where they started, and I can't do anything but to watch Alice waking up not knowing Wonderland exists, or the Fox wither along with the grass since the Little Prince never leave his tiny planet for his conceited Rose.

At times like this, I find myself stumbling against this weird feeling, a combination of a little sting from longing for something to hold onto so dearly, a little spark of excitement from wanting to try something new, and a little anxiety from not knowing what will I encounter next and whether or not the pain will worth it.

So when a new book appeared, I just kept staring at its blank pages, knowing whatever I write will end up the way I start writing it: A girl inside her box. 

Little did I know, that the story of Alice and the Fox have been completed, and though it's a sick cycle, Alice and the Fox did find their Wonderland- their Prince, and no matter how insanely tiring their journeys were, they would eventually meet their own version of happy ending in the end.

While my story, it never starts. I'm still a girl inside her box.

Repeating

One night I caught him smiling,

Before he asked me things I'd do with him.

I end up spending the night story-telling,

Until I close my eyes, still murmuring.

Though I could still hear him saying,

"If that was you asking,

What would I do till we're dying,

I'd only say three things

And that's loving you, laugh, and repeating,"

Effortless

Two straight lines:
Though only a milimeter away,
If they don't bother to change their ways,
They won't find each other even in another million days.

When...

When we have finally met,

I hope He'd give me that sudden longing,
like an irrational desire with bloods rushing,
Or my knees melting,
every time you're talking.

When we have finally met,
I hope He'd give you those funny feelings,
that make you remember,
The rapid beats in your chest, thinking,
"Oh dear, Lord, could this be her?"

When we have finally met,
I hope we could both be sure
That our desperate endeavors
Have finally come to an end, and ahead waiting, is our unpredictable future.

"But I haven't met you yet, and if I did, I'm not aware. I've been working on our future, crafting on my career. So when the day comes when I meet you, I could speak to your father. Communicate that I'm able to love and care for his daughter. Until then I can offer soulbeats and a letter. Painted inside my music, just wait 'till we see each other."

Gowe - Wait For You