Entitled: Untitled

19:29.

There are times when the heavy bass of the music seemed weirdly synchronized with everything in sight, and while it is in a way a satisfactory, she'd prefer it when her surrounding is instead, a jumbled mess of mismatched noises and movements, like jazz, where every instrument plays different melodies, each being the main act of their own gigs, some with their own crowds, some with none at all.

Some distant thuds of wooden soles were racing with the clicks of heels that closely followed, overlapping with a group's chatter, buzzing like a colony of thirsty bees only several meters away. Just a few degrees to the other side was a whole new view, a book of short stories which paragraphs aren't written in orders, is what. The pages flipped wildly fast as she made her way through the crowds. Her senses recorded everything; the noises, the colors, the movements, the smells, the touches, the tastes, the feelings, a little bit of everything that was eventually enough to form a tornado, herself being the eye of the very calamity, surrounding her — or so she thought, while it was in fact, wrapped tightly, enveloped inside her chest where her heart refused to let go.

A puff of gray smoke coming from her mouth acted as a smooth transition between the scenes, but still couldn't hide the obvious contrary — once out, she was in another universe, quieter, way quieter, far too quiet to her liking. The cool night breeze blew a strain of her hairs, like a puppet master it made them sway in a slow waltz across her face, gently touching the cheeks the way they want to but she let not. A long sip of her cig, and then she walked, what looked like the last leaves summer had left were falling behind her, and the grinding branches were her sole soundtrack, that, before the universe decided to throw a whole orchestra. With thunders came, the rain arrived, she took another long sip before it all ran out, but she walked no faster. The blinding light of a series of the upcoming vehicles from the other side of the street served as fickle spotlights — like everybody else that night, she was in her own show, a cameo in her own story.

[ https://youtu.be/99TGikqRJJw ]

Blue

I haven't write in awhile, and I think it's both good and bad. It's good, because finally at a point after a really long time, I feel enough. I feel like I got what I deserve and it's all, I prematurely think is enough.

I got the kind of love that I wanted; a love that doesn't make you feel that they completed you, that you did not lack of any single thing before you two met. that the simplicity is the new elegance, and you just need someone to share the same perspective, to enjoy it together, and you both want it to be a very, very long time.

I got the kind of career that I wanted; though I still stumble now and then, here and there, I got people who, though as tired as I am, are strong enough to get me back up again. people who are the most humble to trust such huge responsibility on these tiny fragile shoulders, knowing deep down I am capable enough. 

It's bad because it makes me settle down for the present time too comfortably. I don't wander far toward the future anymore, sometime letting go of the past too. I wanted to concentrate to what's happening today, and rest until I have to worry about tomorrow, until tomorrow becomes today, on repeat. But then I realized, that THAT, as much as the all the wandering and wondering, is a viscous cycle.

I have lived for 27 years long, and I haven't quite figure out how much portion of the past, present and future to hold onto to be able to feel okay, to feel enough, to feel complete without actually being complete. I haven't quite figure how to juggle these three in sync. I was either gripping too hard on the past I let it left its messy shape on my palms, holding onto the present for way too long that the other two started rolling away, misled in directions, or staring up to the future, not realizing it's gonna hit you on your face anytime soon, that it's closer than you think.

sometime, in between the earth and the sky I'd ask to Him in whispers, "are you waiting for me to be ready? will I ever be ready? is completeness and feeling enough actually nonexistent?"

I'm not sad nor I am happy, but let me tell you that it's the worst feeling ever. I'm tired, but I've slept for so long and it's still not enough. But what is enough again? I'm in between. Of everything. Of every time frame. Of every feeling. It's grey. Everything's grey. But it feels so, so, so blue.

Stay

i did, once upon a falling star, wish for a relationship with someone i could laugh with and at, the one who'd bring me to parks to enjoy the breeze in the midst of the busy buzz of the city, observing people and jokingly dub their silent thoughts about their lives out as our sneakers rest against the trunk of an oak tree we would lay down underneath. i did, in the middle of a night, raise my hands up high and pray for a man who'd see me, not pass my flaws, but at them, paying attention with great details and leave commentaries about how meaningful they are like they're scattered pieces of art, which form one I should, by now, have made peace with. i plant it in my mind, making a slide show i would hit the replay button over and over again for, about something that maybe even god has not yet have in store for me. everyone knows perfection is a lie, living only in books i've read and movies i've watched and talk about with my girl friends. so it did struck me when you came. rather than a dream come true, you have become a living nightmare, ghosting around each passing minutes, strengthening my fear of losing, waiting for a thing to go wrong along the way. now that i've known real perfection, how can i ever live without one once you're gone?

Liability (ii)

just like how an author has this tendency to become more poetic when their feeling goes unrequited, longing for something that is way too far to reach somehow appears prettier than it is to be together with someone that loves you more than you love yourself; as in being pointed out for your flaws gives you this weird ecstatic sensation of self cautiousness. shouldn't it be a good thing, though? knowing how crazy your hairs look like when you wake up would always be adorable in their eyes, and how those weird group of moles on your left cheeks would make the prettiest constellation? he once told me, that my boring brown eyes were so clear he could almost see his own reflection. no one sees me that way before, turning my shameful flaws as their own lines of poems. it had always been me, a poet who romanticizes even the stupidest heart-broken tale ever. maybe this is how it feels like, being the subject of a literature. it feels scary, it frightens me, honestly. and now that I am on the other side, I wonder whether or not it is the same thing that caused the others' disappearances. maybe love, for them, was too much. maybe love too, for me, is way too much.

Saturn (iii)

I like you, because for once after a real while, you make me feel like I can wholeheartedly be myself, that my personality wins and my appearance is just a little icing to the cake. I like you, because you make my stand matters, that keeping myself until marriage is not a silly thing to do, it's remarkable even, and that me communicating with my God in times I don't feel like I could juggle the prayer in between my schedule, is beautiful. I like you, because you make it feels like talking to you is not a waste of time, that I get to do my things first before your night time comes, so I have a bunch to tell you while sending you to sleep. I like you calling my name, I like you calling me with names you made yourself, I like you calling me with names I proclaim myself as, and I like remembering them like they never go away.

I should have stopped, when you said none of those things are real, that it's just another play-pretend and make-belief episode, similar to the poisonous one I had years ago. I should have stopped, when our talk becomes a routine I can't get myself out from, like the sick gravity I once got myself into, knowing well once it's ended, I'd stumble miserably, again. I should have stopped, when you told me you have your own issues, and that somehow, somewhere, they involve us in it. I should have stopped when you told me you like me, when it slipped out of your mouth way too easily, when later on you said you were sorry on how much you have mislead me, when you said we should not go further because you don't want me hurt.

But I didn't. You are too good to be true and I just don't want to let go, at least until I get to experience the most with you, however it would end, and that's selfish of me, to stay when you obviously has shown how not interested you are in our conversation anymore, how, maybe, I got you so wild that your flame has actually went off that none of the sparkle is left to dance the night away anymore. I cling too hard onto my thoughts, onto my idea of you. Maybe I'm the one who mislead myself all these times. Maybe it's not you who I like, maybe it's your company, our conversation, my time spent with someone real, about something that is not. Maybe what I fall for is the way you make me feel, the confidence boost, the excitement, and the crazy rush in my chest.

But anything too much isn't good, and I think I got too much of you already. I think you, or should I put it, the idea of you, took so much space that when you are finally gone for good, it leaves me this huge hole in my chest, full of nothingness. Something is gone, and it feels fucking heavy. It's so unfair, how short the fireworks last, yet how much it affect my night, making it lonely. It's so unfair to know that I'm the only one among us who ends up with the feeling, that you are doing fine, probably reading one of those articles with your glasses slipping down your nose until you fall asleep. It's so unfair that I'm not okay and you are, and how easy it is for you to disappear, and for me to be erased, when disappearing for me is hard as I kept on coming back, wishing you would say "don't go," when erasing you ended up in a session of rewriting.

I guess it's just the tendency that I have, putting too much trust into something that has such small percentage to work. What can I say? I grew up believing in miracle, in fairy dusts and Neverland, in hope that someday I'd have my own definition of them. But funnily, I have no regret for the falling this time. The short stay in your field of gravity has been the most pleasing ride in awhile, even. I'm glad we met, I'm glad you stayed, and I'm glad you're gone. You're a lesson learned hard, slapped right onto my face, yet a lovely short story I'd like to keep in my shelf forever. Instead of remembering your last painful goodbye of how we went overboard with each other, I'd rather remember you as a friend I found mid-galaxy, a friend who has the remarkable ability to help me grow into a better person each day the past three months, a person who leaves me with a self-love as his legacy, and as he once told me, "You are kind, you are strong, you are beautiful."

So thank you, Z. I might have missed my chance to say it to you directly but, good luck taking the baby steps out of your comfort zone. You deserve all the good things in the world.

Peace

I find peace in long train rides

in autumn leaves that brush against their branches before they fall swiftly onto the asphalt, coloring it brown

in the smell of an old library, of the dusty pages in books which sheets have gone pale, filled with marks of folded papers done by uncountable fingertips

in the peeking sun from my half closed window blind, landing on my forehead like a spotlight, a morning kiss that warms my mind up from the cold thoughts I had the night before

in a cup of coffee a stranger brew, which scent catches my sense on my way home, with a subtle hint of mint in the middle of mixed fumes of cigarettes coming out of the mouths of unfamiliar faces

Home

the brushes

the strokes

the pressures

they work like a midnight storm

in a warm summer

like an off tune lullaby

in my dad's shaky voice

like laughing for something

we would have cried about

if only we were alone

like a long ride with windows down

like the cool breeze

that waves our hairs flirtatiously

toward the moving scenery

like the sound of the moving cars

on the main road two blocks away

or the ticking clock when

everyone else is asleep

like my name, said in a low whisper

in between the pillow marks

half closed eyes

and crazy hairs

Almost, just almost home.

Love (n):

I was 13 when it first came. It was the endless talk, which took so long that my dad had to cut the line because the bill was piling up so fast. It was the bold admiration, the "I like you" that was uttered as loud as its meaning. It was the careless attitude toward the thin line between the L words, the cluelessness about the potential catastrophe about it, and the exchanged smiles; the damned smiles.

When I was 15, it was the tiny spaces in between the loosely intertwined fingers. It was the laughter shared in between the first kiss, and the arguments on which side to tilt whose head to as it continued. It was the movie marathon in my living room, and the non-awkward silence it brought right after; head on shoulder, sometimes legs on lap.

When I was 19, it was the lit phone screen at midnight, which was a gate to the fairy-tales of make-beliefs and play-pretends. It was the distance that was brought so close through texts. It was the question of "love at first sight? How about love before that?"

When I was 22, it was freedom, which was by then too much that it got so confusing. It was solitude, and the feeling of completeness, even when I was alone. It was what I thought was the end of the desperate endeavor, before it was the beginning of a new search instead; a gentle reminder that the definition will never stay the same.

I'm 26 now, and for all I've seen and what I'm seeing, it is the comfort. It is far beyond the initial ideas, deep beneath the very few surface of what the eyes can reach and hands can grasp. It is the plot twists, the unpredictable encounters, the mutual willingness to go further, and the childhood curiosity, brought back to life in the way the fairy dusts do to the lost boys' dreams.

It is you.

Liability

some people aren't meant to be kept

some times they just meet you

so you can meet yourself

so you can long back for the warmth

of the heart you have left cold for years

like the hot chocolate that night

that lost its taste against his

some stories aren't meant to be memories

some times they just happen

as a subtle reminder

of how good you are at loving

until you decided to shrug it off

like the cold night breeze

that brushed the same cheek he kissed

and some falling isn't worth telling

some times you fall just so you know

of how capable you are at holding

although love wouldn't be

as easy as how his long digits

intertwining with yours becoming

the best 2 minutes of your life

some times the end of the page

marks a new chapter

some times the closure of an envelope

marks a new letter

but he came like a summer fling in winter

and gone like a christmas present

that never arrives

at times like this

you just have to go home

to the only love that keeps

your heart, your lips and your hands

untouched so it can't ever be broken

untouched so they can't be left to dry

untouched so they can hold yourself better

in a way you let him tried,

in a way you wish he'd tried

Is It Time?

The neon lights sparkle

Fingers intertwine

Lips clasp and tongues dance

All but mine

Solitude romanticizes, they said

But definitely not mine.

Sometimes

Sometimes,

people are destined to meet you

just to give you sparks

so that you would not forget

how love actually feels like

and how much of an importance it is

once it is, once again, taken away.

Sometimes,

people are just a bunch of painful, beautiful reminders

of how so, so, so alive you are.

Sometimes.

...

I don't fall in love. I collapse.

Twenty Six: A Gift

I never thought I'd spend the first minute of my 26th birthday hundreds of feet up in the air, among the clouds, surrounded by a bunch of strangers whose language isn't my own. 

I never thought I'd leave my hometown, thousands miles away from where I used to live, having such a long journey alone. 

I never thought I'd be able to make it, I never had the confidence, since this used to be a battle I have against myself, of which my cowardice always won.

But I never question God and His plan, and that it will always be better than my own.

The scenic sun rise was a beautiful reminder of what Daddy used to tell me over and over:

"Nis, never underestimate a prayer."

So I did. I trusted Him. I trusted me.

Us Versus the Distance

The word "don't" was nothing but a mere whisper, and the thin line the endless sea makes was barely visible, faded by the growing ambition to conquer the world together, to own it like the pairs of comfortable Chucks on our feet.

"Where to start?" They asked.

"French fries at Mcdonald's!"

We won that night, and the next days could only lead to more victorious ones. Or so I thought.

"I miss us, guys."

It's no longer us versus the world now, looks like distance is a way tougher opponent.

"Guys?"

Whisked Me Away, Enthused

The universe seemed to have such an unfair conspiracy with him that night; the grey clouds suddenly decided to gather out of nowhere, trying to act all heroic for crying the tears she couldn't let out just yet as the wind breathed out an inaudible sad song, failed to whisk her pain away.

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*

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."

Love Journey

I walked too fast on those first steps the day I began my journey, so fast that I'm walking too slow for now, too tired to catch up, satisfied enough to see others passing by.

Some walk hand-in-hand, side by side, others have someone waiting for them a few steps ahead.

There were times when I see someone on what seems like the end of the heavenly long stairs, waiting for me.

But then the man waved a hello to a woman behind me, and by then, the closer I get, the further the edge of the stairs seemed, and it made me realize, that the end of the journey is still a long way to go.

At hard times, I'd take a sit, straighten my legs down those steps, it always feels good, taking a rest like that. But then I'd be too lazy to continue climbing the stairs up, assuming days spent daydreaming would taste better instead.

But the wooden-stairs is not an escalator, neither is my life, and daydreaming won't get me anywhere near anyone I'd be willing to daydream about or with the whole time.

So slowly, I lift my tired legs up, forcing them to take baby steps up and ahead as I rewind the lines they used to say to me each time I feel like giving up, "the stairs will end somewhere, and when it does, your endeavor to find him will worth the waiting".

inspired by a post thoughtfully written

Careful What You Wish For

"Careful what you wish for cause you just might get it". I spent most of my times in 2k14 nagging to Allah; about my love life, about my work, about everything, and it all lead me to a big question of "what is it you're planning to do in your wild and precious life?". I used to believe that I was born to do more than being good enough at things, but indeed, a lot of things in 2k14 made me doubt myself.

God knows it so well how craving for a better job I was, to have a roller coaster ride and challenges to face everyday, to get out of my comfort zone, to learn a lot of new things that excite me, and most of all, to have a job I would say, "I'm living my life" about. Maybe I did pray hard enough, or I nagged too much God finally decided to give me what I want just to see what I could do once I get it.

2k15 choked me in surprise. I got my dream job, one that requires creativity and my language skill, one with roller coaster ride and challenges to face everyday, one that kicks me out of my comfort zone. All wishes granted at once. But then again, no yin comes without the yang.

It exhausts me, both mentally and physically. I realized I lack in so many things, and it affects my self-confidence so much that I take what seems like forever to get a job done. It's frustrating, since I've mastered my previous job so well, but now I'm taking baby steps again just to understand what it is that I'm really doing.

But I'm considered very lucky to have a job I love, a job that thousands of people in the world would kill to have. So now, I'd like to wish again, carefully this time, to have countless patience and strength to get through 2k15 safely, to be able to give the best for my country, and to once again believe, that I was born not to just be good enough at things, but to be someone that brings advantages to people too.

2k15, please be nice.