A shitpost of raw and uncensored feelings:

Isn’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 heavy-hearted 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 still suffer from the 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 unwinding still on your sofa with your headphones on, mumbling tones and lyrics I’m very much familiar with. Owl-patterned sweater overwhelms your skinny posture, matching my assorted bird-patterned midi skirt. A cup of dark cocoa I could smell, fusing with a hint of lavender-vanilla scent from your air freshener in the background. I then lay my back on the cushions upon your usual crumpled bed, begin to swim in a sea of spilled ink that comprises a universe I build privately for myself.

You’re still in your own universe as well, as I watch you from afar, afloat among tunes that I very much fancy 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 on dystopia tangled 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 your 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 carefully.

In anything but awkwardness, we survive twenty-three minutes of my weep, the only voices we could hear is my overdue grief, and your mind begins to be swollen from uneasiness. You tell me things are going to be where they deserve to be. Well, I don’t want them to. I want to make mistakes for once in my life, I want to be mistaken, I want you to be a part of the greatest mistake I could have ever done, and 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 urge 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—a witness of many beautiful individuals whom you have been inside whom for the past half year, while never will I ever become anything resembling 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 sheeps, 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 underground stages, homemade signature dishes of yours, cheap cutleries that we share, collection of dusty 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 indescribable pull 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 detachment placed upon his stiff shoulders. His pale-shaded lips were incapable of conveying the purest truth.

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

All the haunting things I cannot separate myself from.

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 of loss. Who are we to long for gratitude,

to desire honour?

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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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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Longship Noir

Slices of cold toast next to pairs of patterned socks, stranded in the corner of the ruffled futon. Few creased notes on the wall prompting how many weeks remained before departure. Windows opened behind untied draperies conveying waft from elsewhere. The loose end of a daybook with picturesque illustrations and few lines of children’s storybook. Empty cartons of almond milk, outmoded jumper with particular men’s odor, colourful inks from leaking pens, Dutch dictionary’s pages found in shreds, bleached trousers hung above fridge; everything was as misplaced as the summer downpour that is occurring outside. Cellphone thrown at the edge of her hammock, suddenly vibrates.

“Hello, there.”

And she just knows rainbow would betide even after cloudburst.


 

iii

Puji-puji tentang rumput yang disapa oleh kado kiriman dari langit, pipa-pipa di ujung atap rumah yang diminta bernyanyi riuh bersama anak-anak awan, rambut-rambut yang basah setelah dirangkul tanpa jeda oleh malaikat dari angkasa yang mengharap pertemuan dengan Dewi Bumi. Ruang-ruang di antara rusukku kini dihias dengan krisan dan bakung tempat kupu-kupu bermain hompimpa sehabis gilirannya kilat dan gemuruh.

Setelahnya,

diam-diam kukirim doa dan salam paling bersahaja untuk Sapardi Djoko Damono dan Cholil Mahmud yang telah berkisah tentang hujan yang sentimentil di bulan Juni dan Desember.


 

ii

Di udara kita menyaksikan salam-salam berbungkus kertas kado keemasan beterbangan—sayapnya dari gula-gula kapas yang menguar dari uap bibirmu saat mengeja gramatika tentang utopia pada turun salju sebelum subuh—menunggu disambut tangan-tangan gadis yang ruang-ruang di antara rusuknya berisi harap-harap yang kekal mengendap.

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