Archive for February 2015

A Study of Feeling

Monday, February 23, 2015 Comments Off

That pang of distress you are experiencing today?

It's called longing.

And it has never been known for its kind timing. Rather, longing has always popped in at the wrong moment; kicking you straight in the gut while you were crossing the street, or punching you in the chest (right at that place where it is hollowed by numerous unrecovered broken hearts you have experienced in your twenty one years of life) when you are making tea. Nothing concrete has ever triggered the recollections that you have to endure for a few suffering moments, these surreal moments cut you down into two parts, 'here', and 'there' as a fixed point in time and space, another being, another creature, another you. Your 'here' is able to decipher certain messages from another humans, while simultaneously maintaining the persona of being completely present at the time and space currently provided by the universe, even though your 'here' keeps on looking through a fogged bus window during nighttime at the place your brain calls as 'there'.

Distantly, you can see what your 'there' is currently doing. These recollections have never been perfect down to minuscule detail, yet somehow your 'there' is always happy. Always content. Seems like your 'there' has never experienced any suffering, or confusion, or angst, or tearful moments. Because maybe that is what it is, a foggy remembrance of something that had happened in few Sun trips ago. Maybe your brain rewires some parts, making it appears as if the whole experience was nothing but a giant cloud consisted of giggly, hazy days.

But that is not what it was.

And it is not why your chest feels empty and heavy at the same time. It is because back then the time and place uncommonly collided with one another for a few weeks, you were in tune with life, the Earth, the whole human race, your dreams, your soul, and most importantly yourself. You were not a passing feature on Earth, you were not so-and-so's high school sweetheart, you were not another customer, you were not a fellow commuter. You were alive, living, and thriving.

It was simply a point where your expectation and reality met.

A justly glorified version of home.



Thursday, February 19, 2015 Comments Off

It happened during an impromptu visit to the mall.

There is this funny, albeit somewhat predictable, repetition of us going to the mall without planning it first. Out of the blue, one of us would ask on our chat group about whether or not we were able to hang out and the others would immediately say yes. And yesterday I promptly said yes. Another two joined in. And so there were four.

It was just like any other day that I get to spend with my closest friends. We were unburdening each other by listening and telling about almost everything with funny stories thrown in here and there. An intimate afternoon dine-in, with a small shopping spree afterwards. Typical, though not without it being special to me. Fun, heartfelt, filled-with-laughter kind of day that ended with a make over session.

But of course, there was always something.

Me and my friend were waiting for a friend of ours in front of her changing room, while another friend of ours was strolling to find tops that she practically had seventeen of. She was trying on two of these small, dainty, tight sabrina tops that could never work on my body. At that moment, I was busy researching about a few venues for my next birthday party. There was a lot of recommendations that came from both the internet and my friends. At the time, all I wanted was an inexpensive restaurant with good vibe and amazing food; even though I knew that inexpensive restaurants are rare creatures in my town. After I scrolled down on my phone at the images of various gastrobars, resto-pub and what-have-you, I said softly to my friend,

"At times like this, I wish I have a boyfriend... it's so hard trying to make a decision based on something that you only know little of."

"Come again?" she inquired.

"You know, it's one of those big decisions that I need help to make. It's just... male insights on these things are somewhat different than ours. I just need someone that can make a decision for me so that I won't have to worry about such trivial thing."

It was then when she said, "I'll make the decision for you."

It was then when I realised that maybe not having to rely one someone was not so bad when you have your close friends. And I have found love in its most unadulterated, pure, and humane form. I feel blissfully and satisfyingly blessed.

to those that aren't mentioned, you know who you are :)

Smug Tom

Monday, February 9, 2015 Comments Off

For Mabella Rehastri.

This is a story of Smug Tom.

Everyone knows a person like him.

I bet you do, too. With his twinkling eyes, laid-back attitude, cheeky comebacks, and the softest dark hair you have ever laid your fingers on.

Everyone knows someone that can casually exactly hit the high and low notes of his own recorded song during live performance, someone that only uses one type of coat, someone that curls his lips when he reads the lyrics he just wrote, and someone that wakes up groggily and remains so until he sips his tea. You probably recognise someone like him, someone that treats his band mates with the same respect, love, and irritation that he has towards his own blood, someone that stays in the background during interviews, someone that makes a framed collection of his guitar picks, someone that sniffs food first before eating, someone that bases the beat of his song with the thumps of his heart, and someone that no one has to verbally elect to be a leader.

He has not always been like that, though.

He was once scrawny boy with half smirk-grin, smirking like he knew the extend of his charismatic guitar-playing did to the sea of underaged girls in front of him. His band mates had once dubbed him as "Smug Tom." He also used to walk with this slight swagger, and a piece of cigarette could be found perching on the side of his mouth. He never used it, though. Years later, he told me that it added a slight bit of mystery to his fa├žade because by doing that he would not have to talk to anyone. Quite smart, he was. That kind of thinking, however, did not do well for his scholastic endeavours. His O Level was poor, and he overslept during his A Level. Poor Tom had to deal with the consequences of his shattered dreams. Music, as therapeutic and familiar as it is, has never been something that he sees as a potential field of work. He always told me that he wanted to be an engineer that was specialised in audio. He was going to improve the acoustics in international concert venues and opera theatres. Such a dream, it was. But then, he went missing.

We met again after I finished my degree and found a job in a few towns over (there was something, other than my job at the Gallery, in this town beckoned me). It was during Winter, but the Sun was out, kissing the icicles and snow away just for a day. I was not planning to go out that day, but it was warm enough to walk around in my worn out patchwork sweater. And there he was, standing in front of the laundrette that I frequently went to. The same laundrette that makes his coat smells like home. Love has a habit of popping in the wrong time. He was carrying a bag that I presumed to be hi laundry bag, later on he told me that being in a band required him to wear the same clothes months on end and it was the first time after the tour he had finally found the time to do his laundry. I gathered my courage to talk to him.

And luckily, he still remembered my name.


Tuesday, February 3, 2015 Comments Off

You never smiled in any of the pictures I took of you. You would do one thing or another, pretending to not acknowledge the fact that I was collecting physical evidence of us being together. Smoking was your preferred form of avoiding my favourite pastime, snapping pictures of you, because you understood how it irked me for not being able to see you properly under those shadows of false redemption. Or perhaps you did it because you were nervous. You see, I understood you as well. I knew you enough to understand that that special vice of yours was something that you would do in times when you felt like you were not yourself, the un-you. After all, being in the spotlight has never been your greatest virtue.

You are the embodiment of every love song written by Bon Iver. You belong someplace else, not in this concrete jungle where every nightmares come true, where every single demons would trade your souls for your dreams, and where greed is the capital's currency. Your nomadic soul should not suffer in the desolation of such life.

So, go. I understand. Find a home for your soul. Find a soul that caresses yours with the purest intention. Find love. Find the life I can never offer. Find a life that you can never grant me.

And when you are done with everything. I will be here, a constant presence of your distant past. Still have faith in you, still always open my house with the warmest welcome for someone that can never call my house as his home.

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