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.

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.

To give more, to expect less.

To serve the kind of devotion which a Mother shares to her sons and daughters, and the Sun’s shine conveys to its surrounding vacancy.

While us mankind speaking forfeiture. What are we to long for gratitude,

to desire honour?

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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Errer

In times of yore, I used to fall for the idea of wanderlust. Stations moving behind night train window, eyes of spouses longing for immediate arrival in every corner of the airport, the smell of salty water slowly vanished within merchants’ old-fashioned perfume scent on cruises—all of them were all the kind of constancy that I kept witnessing each time. And I felt good, as well as alive. It was as if the entire humankind was within my neighbourhood and that all voyages were just routines that kept me sane. It was as if I never befriended the word “hometown,” or “settlement,” or “stay,” not even a chance to know the meaning of.

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