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.

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.

Moonlit Midnight of Men Murmuring

1:01 AM and somewhere across her room, a soul is responsible for unnecessary assumptions passing into her head.

Why, of all implausible excuses she keeps inventing by herself, this particular one turns out to be the most provoking?

Observation doesn’t seem to be of any help, she needs to ponder. Deep. Into rooms where perception and feelings are stored for long, for she has always been way too afraid to get close by.

But the answer has always been complicated and difficult, either to translate, or to appreciate.

All she knows that some things linger. And remain. And never escape.

Gentle pats on her head, awkward arms around her, the curly edges of ivory hair blown away by afternoon breeze,

the fairest colour of skin she has ever witnessed,

all that she saw, all that she felt because.

Slight details she would rather disremember about.

Somewhere across her room, two bodies are inside each other’s, yet it doesn’t scare her. For the only freedom she owns is her own train of thoughts, as her heart is sealed with loyalty, and her body is bounded with grace.

She just believes there’s a space for her,

always. Even between the adhered surfaces of two skins against each other that night.

She’s an entity he wouldn’t unhand.

Not now.

Stadiums Shrines

In a world where the fine line between white and black is sometimes undecipherable, there gets to be some time when everything becomes just clear and readable—in absence of the gray or blurred intervals. Spaces between your eyelids and that couple of brownish circles. Silvery dust flowing away from my face every time I breathe. Sheets of papers with your terrible handwriting on them.

Among things that are white, those are the ones I enjoy spending time to look at the most. Where truth be found, and things are absolute, with no transitions. Eyes that don’t hide lies, scattered dots showing where the atmosphere flows, and writings of non-fiction that are disguised in novels or fairy tales. Unlike snows that melt, the walls between our rooms that crack, or the back side of those photographs of your face which eventually turn to yellow.

Somewhere along the fine line, I can see the other side where things are all the contrary. Black, and unlit. Like the total eclipse of your heart before this story comes to life. Or the conservative mind of mine before our lives intersect.

In other word, the past before us.


 

Kembali

adalah ketika besi berderik tidak berhenti di bawah kaki, tiang-tiang bergeser seirama di balik kaca berdebu, awan kian saru dengan langit tempat ia digantungnya. Pun dari dua ribu kaki di atas Bumi dimana ransel-ransel penuh terisi cerita, hati-hati penuh diduduki nelangsa, dan negeri-negeri nampak kerdil bergerak menjauh menemani larut yang kian semburat. Sementara agenda bersampul kulit bertemu dengan tinta setelah kertasnya mengering terlalu lama, bersama meja tulis yang disapa tuannya setelah kehilangan taulan sejak entah kapan, lalu sebagian kamu yang dikunci kini bernafas lagi pelan-pelan.

Continue reading “Kembali”

A 7:AM of faith in expectancy revived

Expectancy is harmful, indeed. All this time we wish upon humans who were odds-on to be made from stardust, yet not shooting stars. They do not have wishbones placed under their skins, nor walking with horseshoes. Humans are just to whom our hopes and wishes drift, along with promptness of accepting that they may not grant the whole lot—they are just creatures of no good luck charms, no wish makers as well.

Continue reading “A 7:AM of faith in expectancy revived”

September is Almost Over

Humans. Shrewd creatures who find pleasure in obfuscating whatnot. The discerning living beings born to be experts of adjudging and construing, if not misinterpreting at times. Some were made those ways, some others were overthinkers. And here we are, observing each other through hazy window behind a fast-moving train: forever uncertain about what we actually witness.

Continue reading “September is Almost Over”

Oneiric

After straight four hours of watching people wearing satins passing entrances.

/their own kind of today/

Adolescents standing on the dais wear bright sweatshirts, some with knitted vests, as well as harem pants with monochromatic chiffon shirt, all hymning twee to dreamwave if not shoegaze to lo-fi tunes with whimsical lines they have curated the list before—sometimes the bands do not mind doing Scandinavian folk for special order—and her (second) favourite person on Earth at the moment is the boyish-haired girl with xylophone. Filigrees with white to peach blossoms all over the hall, befitting the magenta-coloured flamingo installation near the doorway. Kids wearing pearly tulles to adults wearing ivory brocades surround the portico along with sous-chefs dishing up cannellonis from table to table.

Continue reading “Oneiric”