Archive for July 2016

Collection of Recollections, Part IV

Sunday, July 10, 2016 Comments Off

I remember taking a foreign language course back when I was in college. It was compulsory, we would not be able to graduate otherwise. It was not the first time I was exposed to that certain language, but it was the first time me and my friends decided to actively study the language. For sure, the words did not roll off our tongue prettily, due to different root. We studied it for two years, and then we stopped doing so because we had another important things to focus on. The language becomes a familiar thing for me, though I can no longer speak it. Now I wonder, have I became the language you've partially forgotten? I understand you no longer remember the taste of my name in your lips, how your tongue would twist a little; no other person has managed twist my name in the most exemplary way. — tongues, and other pliant things

Stories can be made in coffee shops, libraries, or even make up store. It's easy to imagine the strangers next to you as something that they aren't, to make them as heroes rather than foes. However enticing it is, the world has been completely reduced into that small corner, that tiny space. You and the other person can imagine endless scenarios where the two of you get to know each other; by shy smiles, nod of acknowledgement, coffee spills, accidentally touching hands, or other marvelous things. A fleeting thing, it is. But you were theirs, several glances ago. — a dictionary-defined zsa zsa zsu

the first lesson,
that life has taught me
all the love stories,
every poem, poetry, snippet
that I have ever
read or written,
could never be
mine — forever the observer

Perhaps in life there is no such thing as eternal soulmate, the kind that you should end up with forever. Maybe what we really have is just these momentary soulmates, the new ones filling in after the previous ones left. Your friends, your cousins, your partners, your colleagues, even your parents are just filling in the gaps, even if the other could never permanently fill the void. They are just beacons of lighthouses in your endless journey through the sea of existence. Irreplaceable connections, though sometimes redundant. Yet you need them, because you can never exist the same before, and after, them. — to my friend, miles in the sky

tonight's four-word story:
was it ever love? — you know the answer

My thesis adviser once told me that I write with feelings, even when it is concerning the rise and fall of great powers post world war two. It was something of myself that I did not recognise and acknowledge, not until he showed me. It was a truth, though not universally acknowledge, that I only just came across when I was still clumsy in being my twenty years. This simple, little truth, thrown at me in his small office in the corner of my campus, made me stop setting myself on fire for not being whatever it was that I should never be, something that was not myself. — little delights, enormous impact

Cities; or categorizing your personalities

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I am used to watching you as London, letting everything in, in, in, and then bursting in seams. With unexpected visitors, blinking lights of establishments from conquered lands, coffee on the go, and cold nights. All the while you bury the skeletons, down, down, down below.

You forgot how to be Bandung. It is lost in your dictionary, wedged between the words "vacation" and "rucksack". The coldness that used to be oozing from your skin is no longer there, instead you savour it from the city where you are. It is not lost in me that we now only exchange few lousy hellos.

Maybe you tried to be Bali, once, when you were little. All bright, exotic, seductive, and forgiving. A grand feast to the senses, everything is amplified. But it did not fit you. The howling wind soothes your heartsick better than the thundering sounds of beach party. You shed it off, easier than the leaves turning.

You long for being Zurich. You want to claim stability, openness, and blatant display of order. A peaceful state of neutrality, not letting yourself  set aflame by expectations and self-imposed goals. Everything should not be confusing, nor it should be patternless. Yet you are drawn into chaos.

However, sometimes I found myself wishing you were Jakarta. Alive, beating with pulse, right here, closer to where my parents build their empire, familiar, colorful. Yet I know, I can't push you into something that has only caused me longings and loneliness. I have experienced firsthand that this partial-metropolitan city has not given me total liberation.

There are days when I found you as Milan. Overbooked with inexplicable numbers of thoughts, slivered all over the old ones and new, like herd of consciousness. Everything that has ever happened, even the beautiful revolutions and the overthrows, is still subdued by the steps of temporary visitors. You wonder about what happened during the supremacy, was it dark due to its intense bloodshed and betrayal, or was it the foundation of your current state.

But you can be anti-Amsterdam, too. Burning bridges, lighting up the path away from the continent that has the right to oversee your growth. Always too far, yet it is so close, from the grasping hands of the blood of your blood. No harmony comes from your mayhem.

And you are Prague, revisited. You are spoken secrets thriving in this small corner, a joint lead by cobblestoned street that has a specialty in reviving old jazz music. In here, there is no excuse to be taciturn. The beats mend broken hearts, tired eyes, and wanting mouth. You try to stand with each foot on different sides, you want to acknowledge your ancestor, still getting in touch with your mysticism and symbolic victory, but you are pushed into changes. Modernity is trying to adjust itself on you. You look content.

I should not have expected you to be molded into just one city; an all encompassing person like you only deserve to be like the best part of the world, forever changing.

Sentimental Reason

Tuesday, July 5, 2016 Comments Off

It's almost midnight where I'm at.

My hair is still drying itself out, while perpetually smelling like a mixture of herbs and essential oil. I should have been dozing off by now, considering that I have to get up before dawn. But, for the life of me, though my eyes are already droopy and my customary cup of tea has already been emptied, I could not fall asleep. Arcade Fire is accompanying me tonight, and their music is not the loudest thing in this house, neither is the clattering sounds of my brother preparing snacks. Not when nostalgia is currently making itself known, its presence is unwanted, though not unwelcomed.

It wraps itself around me, refusing to be shaken off like tentacles latching themselves on glass. The grip is gentle this time, unlike the preceding moments when it tried to rip me apart. There are charming plethora symphonies of dilated senses. I am pulled into fragments of days when I felt myself at peace with my surrounding: of greenery, walking ventures, cold summer, concrete roads, earth-tone buildings, achromatic wardrobes, foreign tongues, morning coffee and baked bread, tiny tea shops, and self-promise. Everything was real, and mine, to take in and to indulge in. The very definition of contentment.

There is certain kind of dullness after you have given yourself the pleasure of knowing what sort of circumstance that makes you most content. Especially when fate is not kind enough to let you enclosed within the environment. I am left with bubbling restlessness, making me tiniest bit impractical in living with the current time stream. If I could have it back, I would not have wasted it on seeking materialistic delights, however aesthetically pleasing they are. Instead, I would have bottle it all up by staying silent while marking every spot as mine, greedily taking in everything and pocketing them in the safe keep of my head for me to consume later, molecule by molecule. A selfish gesture, I know, but I scarcely have anything to claim besides the bones in my structure and the thumping heart.

Ah, there it is. Nostalgia, you were born out of sentimental reason. Out of envy, greed, and longing. Knock it out, now. It is unhealthy to be this way—to project loneliness and alienation as a ground reason to remember serenity. We cannot be enslaved by our own incapability of accepting reality. You are only an echo. A shadow of something I can only chase, never be with. A smoky rendition of a picturesque past. Truly, what you are showing is beautiful in its tranquility. But, I refuse to be a fool. Go home, now. Please do not worry, I will seek home and gratification.

It's almost two in the morning. Everything exists in murmurs and sighs and dimmed light.

Collection of Recollections, Part III

Friday, July 1, 2016 Comments Off

your lips tremble.
three, two, one.
everything becomes blurry shadows all around us.
are you trying to summon ancient trickery.
ah, I know what you are collecting,
as if it is tangible and moldable,
sweetling, you're trying to make love appear.
you whisper again.
four, five, six.
everything becomes clear
you stand there looking at me,
on your eyes a question formed
oh! you've been waiting for a long time
but, no
no, my darling, love is not here.
— darling, you cannot force love

stony, rough and ridges,
barely used and unobtainable.
the softest part of your spirit,
i beg of you to recall:
what is asleep but not forgotten,
what is tainted but not irredeemable,
what is unused but not broken.
can you remember?
something utterly yours,
that I desperately wish to be mine
— your zealous heart 

     i remember opening my window one morning. my mother reproached, close the window, you will let the flies in. but i did not listen to her, my longing burning. i kept asking, the world kept me in, is a windowed cage much better than windowless one. my mother was without answer, unlike my father. girl, you should be glad this cage is keeping you alive from this destructive world. my parents, the contrasted constant worrywarts.
     this was not gilded cage that I speak of. it was not made of softness, lulling, whispers, silvers and golds. neither was it brutal. this cage people call homeland, this price for living in the grey, neither developed or developing. rotting in the perpetuity of stagnancy. impatience was a luxury. the price of freedom was consuming war and swallowing heartaches, and unfamiliarity and running and disembarkment.
     mother spoke in hushed tones, the freedom you are seeking of can only be obtained by pursuing romantic relationship.there it was, she talked of impossible thing, an extincted remembrance of time long past, a life that had never meant to be voiced. it was about a partnership that only few could sample, even less that could devour. a life my parents only know.
    the world was spinning around, around, around, and up, up, and up. everything was messy, jumbled, scrambled, and dirty. i crave for everything light, soft, peaceful, fragranced, and lively —  is it my fault for seeking purity?

what is human if not being weighted by the smothering relentless questions and requests. they do not teach me how to fall in love with ethereal knights, they had me endured the pressure of being molded into a beast. grow fangs, they ordered, build your armour. they prepared me for an impending war, an impossible one. brutal, savage, with heart as tender as a feather could never survive. it was forbidden to be unprepared and helpless. i want to perform the most illustrious illegal act: the murder of expectation. — imprisonment before conviction
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