Oblivion

Ivar,

if love at first sight truly exists, mine would be the southern lights. One fine night in Ålesund, 1996, I caught my stepfather Dainin Kanav fall asleep to a video he played on repeat, which was recorded back then when he was journeying solo to the Falkland Islands. It was all magenta, the colour of my childhood princess, Sonja the baby doll. Broad horizons, infinite vacancy, wintry tarn, coalesced with that dancing Titania of nature’s. No other sound but fleeting nothingness clasping black pinewoods. I, then, sat next to the sleeping Kanav watching fifty-four seconds of what turned out to be my lifetime dream, learning for the first time that solitude was bliss.


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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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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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When we land on a beach

I’d love to see you in an overexposured photograph where we’re looking at the burning red of sunset and I steal a quick snap of your portrait gazing at the west. Just a dark silhouette of you. In which you don’t have to worry about the possibility that you may be looking all peculiar at that moment, because we could always disguise it in all black. In which we learn that obscurity could somehow be good if we know how to befriend them, wisely.

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I hear it from 1.75 miles above the sea

Do not fear of overcast.
Because rain, rain is a beautiful friend, dear.
Particularly,
when they are cold enough to form the snows.
When they are warm enough to turn into friendly clouds.

And look when they surround you.
A thick haze. A vivid mist.

Down there when you bow to tie your boots.
Up above there where you might see a glance of a helicopter passing.

Tell me,
how does it feel to dive in between them?

Does it feel like you are flying helplessly,
or more like you are floating in vacancy?


 

Beau Monde

Remember when I told you some stories about those picturesque auroras then I got so excited that my eyeballs were like about to jump out of its lids?

Or when we were busy dreaming a venturesome trip to Alaska that you never missed seeing that curve between my cheeks all conversation long?

Or the moment when I showed you those hot air balloons parades that I spoke in loud high note voice all along which you could not survive any more second?

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The Wanderer

How’s Nunavut, Ghil? Done painting enough memories of every street corner as you said you would do before Texas greets you soon?

Ah, how I wish I were as lucky as you. Traveling all year long, creating footprints on every block of the road ways, meeting friendly strangers just to share bottles of cheap beer. I mean, Belgium has always been good, but, somehow I feel the urge to just take random aeroplane and live a slightly new life as someone I never thought I would become, in somewhere I never thought I would love to be part of. Perhaps, the old idea of being a homeless painter while traveling to every corner of Europe needs to be true someday, don’t you think?

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