Unfiltered and impromptu 12AM thoughts: on us and dating

One of my biggest gratitudes early this year stems from appreciating how much I’ve been blessed with a particular bond that never in my earlier days of having a crush on someone had I thought I would’ve ever deserved. One that has been growing for half a decade, with somebody that can be virtually summed up as my completely-kind-of-guy.

The kind of companionship that is so brilliantly beautiful and strong, it survived so many possible kinds of challenges. The kind of relationship that still personally amazes me each and every day, for it is a living proof that the universe works in a certain strangely beautiful way to make two stranded puzzle pieces that are meant to fit each other eventually meet somehow and manage to see through each other. The kind of battle of mutual fondness and appreciation to win over ache and selfishness, which somehow finds its way to grow and last despite all the complicated mazes it constantly went through.

When I think of it, I am constantly feeling grateful and eager. Eager to explore all the future possibilities, of all the amazing things we could potentially do together. And all the future challenges we could potentially survive together again. The life-changing, mind-blowing, world-shaking things we could create. The more powerful magic dust we could sprinkle onto our surroundings. The greater things that are above and beyond the limit of what we could do now when our attachment is still left unrecognized by the laws.

I guess my feelings are not the only thing that reassure me that I’d very much like to grow old with you;

it’s also the thoughts of all the strengths we’ve collected and will keep collecting when we are together—that we could use to make bigger, more amazing things happen in the world. It’s also the thoughts that such a strong and wonderful relationship deserves a much better-defined goal and path to help make the world a nicer place for perhaps everyone. It’s also the thoughts that while we are young and free-spirited, we could maybe transform a piece of the world with our combined wild hearts and idealism. It’s also the thoughts that if love really is such a powerful energy to radiate, ours in a higher extent could presumably be the beginning of all the finest days of our lives—and maybe for others too.

A shitpost of raw and uncensored feelings:

Ain’t it such an ugly truth that two people can really love and adore each other so much, but are never meant to be able to protect nor take care of each other?

Most, though, I guess, can really love and adore each other so much despite realizing that they can never be effortlessly happy together. The extent of how much their feelings would be valid depends on, and only on, how much they’re willing to sacrifice for each other.

But I guess the most painful way to love is understanding how much you two can really love and adore each other—with all those complimenting traits, compatible principles and values, mutual interest and hatred towards all possible kinds of stuff, an agreement of how much each of you is such a million in one and one in a million of an absolutely complete package kind of soul tailored specifically by the universe for each other—but are not meant to show how much that “love” really means.

All the unabashed yet untold, undelivered love that lies behind the great tall wall that you both are trusted to not break.

Like that midnight when you were sleeping only a couple doors away after years of thousands of miles between us; yet here I am, only vomiting words of heartbreaks and affection because of the boundaries we set to stand between us.

I wish I had been able to give you a proper goodnight kiss, a warm goodnight hug, and an affectionate stare while closing your bedroom’s door; instead of a bittersweet, cold conversation in front of your bedroom’s door about how much we’ve been missing out and how far our feelings and understandings towards each other have evolved,

even after sixty-four months.

I love you as you know it, and I’ve been missing you way too badly for way too many days than I can count, and I hope that you do understand how much it would really mean for me if we could stay together for the rest of our lives—with no guilt involved.

Even though you do not seem to be the kind of guy who would be prepared to ask that one question that keeps us from being together once and for all, I still kind of hope you were, because;

my answer has always been a yes.

Jade

But it’s blue, and convincing;

the kind of hue that makes you wish to sing!

It could’ve stopped, and exploded, then thawed–

Like nothing but the milliseconds we were pulled apart.

Lavender clouds, nickel moon, black hawks

Eyes set on the skyline

Two persons missing old, compelling talks,

and a shattered glass of wine.

But it’s yellow, and powerful;

only thing is I wish it had a soul.

Dua Puluh Empat

Gadis usianya tepat dua puluh empat hari itu.

Langit merah muda pukul delapan pagi di Calgary sama manisnya seperti subuh-subuh yang lalu. Begitu pula turun salju yang tipis mengendap di trotoar pagi itu, selazim Desember yang dulu-dulu. Dinginnya cukup menggebu, tapi tidak terlalu menjadikan beku. Dipacunya langkah menuju terminal kereta, mengejar rutinitas sebelum esok tiba Sabtu.

Di pikirannya hanya satu: ingin segera menyambut akhir minggu. Mencoba resep ikan salmon baru, menelepon satu-dua kawan lama yang kini dipisah benua, atau mungkin menyortir foto-foto perjalanan beberapa pekan silam ke Peru. Intinya, dua hari tanpa dijejal tensi atas pekerjaan, dan paras-paras yang membuat jam-jam di kantor terasa melambat, tegang, dan kaku. Nah, yang kedua itu yang membuat ia paling enggan berlarut-larut di kubikel tanpa sekat itu.

Continue reading “Dua Puluh Empat”

The Untouchable

Your twenty sixth birthday went past, all the transient romances ceased, your adolescent lust turned into thirst for a more timeless bond.

Never before you met a soul so impeccable; whimsical words born from their fetching fingers, constant supplies of contagious laughter they radiate into the realm, modesty within all the sincere kindness they touch the Earth with, the way they cover their grace with elegance, all the exemplary talents people wish to steal,

all sublimity you can barely touch. When boundaries are higher than discrepancy, bigger than numbers, stronger than faith,

all that is solely out of your reach. Even skins, even the tip of their fingers where affection is preserved for too long,

even the whole lot of things you wish you could caress.

Are they worth the yearnings?

Interstellar

Often times I notice how the edge of my heliosphere intersects with yours; in such bizarre motion that hauls me to the same loop of conundrum all over again. Inconvenient gestures that come into sight because; expectancy arisen; yet solicitude that interferes. Whether or not my conjecture makes sense, or your presumption is legitimate. Questions that we could answer harmlessly, but we choose not to.

In my universe of books, white coffee, oil paintings, humans’ expressions immortalized in black and white images, you happen to be the wet empty bench in the midst of a city park. Lonesome, unharmed, but seemingly refusing to be saved at the same time. What am I in yours? Amongst abstract tunes, movies from the 50’s, Darjeeling tea, and pages of short movie screenplays?

Perhaps a dusty shoe on top of the rack of that store. Attached to the other pair, unable to be saved either.

Premises and Prologue (part A)

One-way ticket to Boston, two heavyhearted faces, and three words never pronounced. Four days away from a newborn chapter not yet ready to be written. Outside, the Sun radiates after months of bareness and gray in the sky, but we suffer still from inherent whiteout in each of our mind.

I grab a book of poetry, make my way to your room, twenty seconds away from my studio. You’re calming still on your sofa with your headphones on, mumbling tones and lyrics I’m very much familiar with. Owls-patterned sweater overwhelms your skinny posture, matching my assorted birds-patterned midi skirt. A cup of dark cocoa I could smell, fusing with a hint of lavender-vanilla scent of your air freshener in the background. I then lay my back on the cushions upon your usual crumpled bed, begin to ponder within spilled ink of elegiac ode that comprises a universe I build privately for myself.

You’re still in your own universe also, I could see you from afar, afloat among tunes that I favor very much too. I’d like to sing with you just like the usual days, I really would love to, but time almost ceases—at least for us. All I could do is joining you here, saving you from the comfort of your own company, deliberately adding more burden to our shoulders as we countdown to the expiration of our period of coexisting together. Boston and Stockholm; 3,741 miles of separation. Unknown time limit.

You grab your book of dystopia combined with philosophical questions—the kind of stories I would never apprehend no matter how frantic you’ve always become every time you narrate me the whole synopsis. You lay next to me, quitting from the universe you’re in before, moving to the next stop of galaxy. I’m still drowning in sentimental proses you barely appreciate. And there, just like that, I burst into tears. Questions overflowing inside my brain are just too unbearably massive to withstand. You hug me.

In awkwardness, we survive twenty-three minutes of my weep, the only voices we could hear is my depression, and your mind begins to become overfilled with uneasiness. You tell me things are going to be where it deserves to be. I don’t want to. I want to make mistakes for once in my life, I want to be mistaken, I want you to be part of the sweetest mistake I would have ever done, I want to sound cheesy and full of cliché for once in my life.

My mind is already cheating all this time. My heart has undergone even so much worse of stages. My imagination and desire altogether have gone unforgiveable. Continents away from me, a clueless soul bounded with me by pledges and vows, thinking I am doing perfectly fine and all right and trusted. I am not.

But there you are all this time; taking care of my honesty, keeping my grace together. Not even trying to persuade me to quit behaving. Leaving me physically untouched. Although you leave the other parts—heart and mind—mishandled and disarrayed.

This particular room—an attester of many beautiful individuals whom you have been inside for the past half year, while never have I ever become one of them. Yet still, I own the very space for you to constantly come back and be home. And you always do, and my acceptance is always given at zero price.

I fall asleep counting memories instead of sheep, the lamp is turned on still. Shelves in countless bookstores, narrow streets in unknown cities and towns, world’s most well-known lakes and mountain, obscure musicians on fancy stages, homemade signature dishes of yours, cutleries that we share, collection of DVDs of documentary movies, and so forth. All that makes the loudest year in my constantly tranquil life. All that comes to presence because of you and your inescapable lure towards me.

00:01 AM, and another remaining day is elapsed. I am awake and staring at such perfection contained within a single individual slumbering restfully next to me, sharing a crumpled single bed once again, who doesn’t even let himself to touch me just because. With his ivory skin contrasting his ebony hair, mental fatigue disguised inside his beautiful hollow-cheeked face, and burdens of detaching placed upon his stiff shoulders. Pale-shaded lips incapable of conveying the purest truth.

And all that he knows, all that he’s very much talented at, all kinds of intelligence that tease me in the first place. All that he is.

All values that I could not disengage.

Not in three days.

On the Surface of a Perforated Sphere

Over a shot of your 252 and a glass of plain lemon water of mine we exchanged our notion that evening. Casually and unpretentiously. But still, the kind of conversation that would intrude my mind for weeks or possibly more, partly because: 1. Your queer accent had always been my strange sort of muse; 2. Your judgment towards unhappy facts had even been growing more liberally since the last time we had such discussion—despite possible cause of simply different shots you had; and 3. Your wavy edges of hair draping behind your trilby hat fit you like never before.

The other part was just because, it’s you and me again. Trying to befit our fortune and deal with the infelicitous consequences. Repeating the same cycle of melancholia, followed with acceptance, and then hunger for coming back.

Have we never learned anything?

Oh, darling, we have. We always have. But we have always decided to also forget the lesson that we’re the sorts of variables that could never coexist altogether in any equation, simply because we believe in possible new approaches to overcome that biggest issue of our affinity.

Whether it’s actually realistic or not.

Oceans away from where we were, a soul that was supposed to be half of me was undergoing their life on a casual daily basis, being clueless about what I was suffering, not even having time to care, not even asking.

A quick stroll away from where we were, a soul that had recently been responsible for your constant source of fun—fulfilling part of you I could never afford—was waiting for you to knock on their bedroom door; being clueless about what you were suffering, not even having time to care, not even asking.

And there we were, getting stuck in the same final question as always. And our approach towards it would be you unconsciously staring at my face, which I reply with the exact same of motion; and for seconds we’ll begin to notice again how the freckles in our eyes are mirror images if only we could stand close enough to also notice that they’re perfectly aligned.

And that stops only when one of us giggles, and looks away, and laughs at our constant trait of being folly.

Because our skins don’t even know each other. Unlike yours and hers. Or much fewer parts of mine and his. Our different set of boundaries defines it all.

And you appreciate that, and I appreciate you for appreciating that.

But hey, our eyes.

The only entities that communicate the most when our voices no longer do.

“So what are we going to do now?”

“I don’t honestly know.”

“We never did, do we?”

“We always did. We chose to ignore all the time.”

“Then?”

The guy in the live band sang Transatlanticism in the way we never heard of before, and just like that, we knew the only answer for our ponder rightaway.

To be close, no matter what we are, no matter what we can or cannot do,

or become.

I need you so much closer.

A Conditional Probability

“You’re one in a million kind of soul.”

Such compliment that wraps it all,

before today.

None of us is a scarce entity, nor exceptional. We could develop a society consisting of 7,500 human beings of our kind, of souls with mutual similarities. “I find a better version of myself in you,” you said, to me, and could be to another 7,499 humans out there—in the case where you happen to be the worst of your kind. Seven point five billions of souls coexist today, and really, one in a million kind of soul won’t be my favorite line of flatteries considering my sophistication in statistics. A million is merely a faux statistic we invent in attempt to emphasize how remarkable someone has become—as if there’s little opportunity for us to meet the other 7,499 people as such.

But there is always such opportunity.

Sometimes given, unanticipatedly.

Just like here, now. And here I am, left alone speculating. Why does the universe drag us into this? Why this rendezvous? Why now, here? Why your pinstripe sweatshirts? Why all obscure movies and historical stories and political issues that brought us into endless midnight talks? Why the yellowish skin of yours, and the fuzzy edges of your thick hair, and the slight freckles under your eyes?

Why a whole lot of these and other things that both of you share in common?

Wouldn’t be my chance of meeting any other person with such qualities,

unless, probably, if I happen to land on

the other side of the Earth.

Which I did, which led me into this, which I regret having said about.

But even if I do, there’s just so little possibility for that person to share a mutual devotion with me; I mean, what are the chances?

And the answer surprises me.

It also surprises me how easily things could fall into time and places, without even us planning, without even a single warning, without asking. No matter how cautiously I’ve been behaving. When calculations do not make perfect sense, yet once I begin to accept that this might be just how cryptically pleasant works of the universe, it becomes particularly conceivable per se.

Let your body sink into me

Like your favorite memory

Like a line of poetry

Or a fucking fit of honesty

You know it saves me to think even for a little while

I owned the set of shoulders that you came to rely on

I hear your voice resembling that guy on the radio as I submerge myself in guilt, as I try to sleep the provoking thoughts about us away.

In case our timing is right

In case you need more from me

Than a bit of advice

Or a tongue full of sympathy

But they reappear—always—with every daybreak, with every crepuscle we endure,

and with all the time in the world that we have.

On the Fence

We could complicate things by simply having the guts to confess to each other that the fondness we find towards each other is mutual. We could perplex the boundary between right or wrong by unwisely choosing to juxtapose our feelings and logic; senses and intuition; chances and risks. We could obliterate the boundaries between us,

faith,

concepts,

numbers,

judgment,

reasoning,

abstinence,

inheritance,

discrepancy,

circumstances,

pursuit of settlement,

chastity;

if only we’re both reckoning that this very moment of our intersection exists to be treasured, despite the likelihood of the distasteful prologue.