Fragments 03

She enters the room yet she never seen the entrance. She has never been outside or seen the doors which lead into it. It is as if she’s not coming from the outside but just happens to be there right in the moment.

She has been there several times now. Maybe more, she never counts. Though, it always feels like being there for the first time. The sight of the room keeps her stunned every time she’s there. It allures her for the sight in front of her is grandiose and dream-like. Or perhaps she’s actually dreaming?

It is like a atrium of a grand hotel. The ceiling is several meters high with low saturation stained glasses. The railings of the second and third storeys of the building and so on are visible. There is front desk in front of her. It was unmanned like the hotel is abandoned.

The interior is made of crystals. Or diamonds? She doesn’t know. It is like she is surrounded by light. Its flooring which usually made of hardwood or carpet is made of crystals. It reflects the light which has been reflected already by its walls and columns which are nothing but crystals.

All the reflected lights come by the ceiling. Its combination between another crystal and glass lets the lights through so it can get in and jumps to one surface to another as it’s reflected again and again. The lights come through stained glass gives away reflections of pinks and blues. Gentle pink like cotton candy, almost pale, near transparent but she’s aware of its light touch of pink. And blue between Cerulean …or is it Cobalt? The gentle touch of purple it contains blurring the distinction between the two of them.

She doesn’t do anything when she’s there, not even stepping closer. She only sits or stands still, witnessing how the lights play, how the pink and blue dance, how clear the crystal it seems like she can see through the other room. But she doesn’t want to. That only foyer feels just right and enough.

All those scenery happen in her head in just a blink of eye.

Or in fact, she doesn’t even blink. She just closes her eyes,

as their lips meet,

gently.

She cannot remember what did she feels or what did she sees years ago. She can only  be sure it was not this bewitching room that she brought herself into.

12.01 PM

“I said where you been? He said ask anything

“I’ve been calling for years and years and years and you never left me no messages, you never send me no letters, you got some kind of nerve taking all I want”

It’s been years since I can’t remember when all these started. For all the rage and the anger and frustration, all carelessly spoken denies and those who were spoken out of heart. All those years, I’ve grown from a sincere believer to a cynic. I even couldn’t remember how come I got to have that kind of faith back then. It was a strong one, yet unfortunately circumstances happened.

‘Come to Me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and humble in heart and you will find rest for your souls. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light’, you said. Yet I was left alone for years that made me arrive to the point where I believe those sentences were merely lies.

I bet you don’t know how weary I was and I am. Or worse, perhaps you knew it all along but decided to do nothing.

“Where were you when everything was falling apart? All my days spent by the telephone that never rang and all I needed was a call that never came”

All these times I just want to be proven wrong. I want you to come show me that you do exist. Not on just some ancient scriptures which changed over time or changed for the sake of political propaganda. Show me that you do exist, in real world, not only on the mind or heart of some people who have been privileged by faith I may never have.

Show me that you exist, prove me wrong. Prove my statement that denies any of your existence is wrong. Come to me, tell me that you are here all along and always been here.

“Why’d you have to wait, to find me?”

02.10 AM

We always say we got all the time in the world.

Yet, we don’t.

It’s always less than 12 hours by the end of the week. After 45-50 working hours and the rest we need to spend by ourselves.

In those less than 12 hours, sometimes I wish we were back in college. We could skip a class or two. Go out for some adventure outside the city for a whole day. Or impulsively take a trip or two, randomly, for a whole week to venture further.

In those less than 12 hours, I sometimes wish we were still in high school. So we can meet every single day between classes. Pick our favourite spot on the canteen to have some lunch. Or stay until it’s late afternoon, waiting for each other’s extra club activity just so we can go home together.

In those less than 12 hours, I sometimes wish we were only kids. We could play all day from morning until dusk. There’ll be lunch time, nap time, or bath time, but we’ll meet shortly in no time to continue our imaginary adventure few hours ago.

In those less than 12 hours, I wish we were much younger, more careless, more irresponsible, yet we really have all the time. In those less than 20 hours, I wish we were not tied by many obligations and time consuming as adults are.

I wish we were just there at the moment which cannot be measured by time and any of its parameters.

Written while listening through Jack Johnson’s album In Between Dreams.

10.06 PM

At some points, perhaps you were charmed by my existence
which was outside the circle of yours.

At some points, perhaps your affections were sincere.

At some points, perhaps you loved me.

At some points, perhaps you really thought of settling down.

At some points, perhaps you really were afraid to hurt me.

At some points, perhaps you were afraid that I’ll be gone
and you’ll never stand a chance anymore.

At some points, perhaps the tears and pain you showed were innocent.

At some points, perhaps the shown remorse and things you spoke,
were spoken out of honesty.


But I didn’t know, I won’t ever know. 

And at some points those things have gone into the back of one’s mind and will be gone just like that.

What I know is things which don’t seem or feel real for me, would never be.

It’s been a year since I decided you are nonexistence.

The only thing I regret is to give in, and to just let myself be that naive to believe everything you say back then.

Fragments 02

He was just sitting in front of the table as she roamed the room.

She came closer, slow yet certainly. She reached him and run her fingers through his hair, brushed it between the gaps of her fingers. He sat still as she held him. Only that time, it was his ear which pressed against her chest, near her heart. They both closed their eyes, as she savoured every moment of it, as he listened silently to her beating heart.

Later he said,

“your heart still beats that fast”

“of course”

She replied as she couldn’t think of any other answers.

Oh dear, she spoke to herself,

Little did you know, you make it drumming often.

She reminded herself of things he often does that give gentle surprises for the beat of her heart. She played those fragments of memories on her head and suddenly she remembered this silly thing which drew a little smile on her lips,

My dear, you don’t even know.

Even when it’s regular Saturday afternoon and it is only matter of minutes until I leave my desk or until you send me message saying that you’re outside, my heart still beats fast.

Just like that night when we were about to meet for the first time.

8.04 PM

I want to confess as best I can, but my heart is void.

The void is a mirror. I see my face and feel loathing and horror.

My indifference to men has shut me out.

I live now in a world of ghosts, a prisoner in my dreams.

Is it so terribly inconceivable to comprehend God with one’s senses?

Why does he hide in a cloud of half-promises and unseen miracles?

How can we believe in the faithful when we lack faith?

What will happen to us who want to believe, but can not?

What about those who neither want to nor can believe?

Why can’t I kill God in me?

Why does He live on in me in a humiliating way –
despite my wanting to evict Him from my heart?

Why is He, despite all, a mocking reality I can’t be rid of?

— The Knight Antonius Block;
The Seventh Seal, Ingmar Bergman (1957)

These lines spoke through me during the scene. Faith itself truly is one thing I haven’t had the privilege to have, just yet.

 

01.08 AM

I know that I was not made for the big city, as I never made for living the office life.

It’s only been seven months that I moved back into town. Yet I always crave for some chances which will take me back to the city I was living in, for the past four years. Since the vibe of this town is somehow so exhausting, it drains me every time I have to go out. It feels weird that one city which used to feels strange, in the end feels more like home than your hometown has ever been.

There was this one night when I was currently watching a series and my mind flew back into that city and just right that second, every corners, every details, every side of the street, all things which have grown into something familiar, came flashing into my consciousness. I know I’ve been missing those places and details for long, I looked on the calendar, counting days of when will I be able to go there. But it’s still months away from April and suddenly my chest felt the heaviest I’ve ever had these days.

I couldn’t help but cry. I cried so hard my voice was drowned in every breathe.

Right that second, all I wanted to do was to pack my things, skip work the day after and took a trip back to that city. One or two day to escape would be enough, I thought. But then, what? What can I do after since I know I will always miss that city and long for the chance to go there.

The feeling of frustration feels the same as to imagine I have to go to work the next day. It’s only been five of six months that I spend my days working eight to nine hours a day, six days a week. And I have never felt as drained as ever. Some friends or relatives say that I am lucky that I have found a job already for I am still pretty young, or that it must make me happy that I now am making my own money.

Truth is, each day I get more and more impatient to leave all these things and trade it for any chance to pursue higher education in the field I’ve always dreamed to learn from and later working on.

It surely is deliberating that I’m making my own money. I become less dependent to my parents. They don’t have to take full responsibility of me, that now I’m almost fully independent. Yet these are not what I signed up for in life. This is not how I want to see myself to be in few years later. This will do nothing than making me into such robot whose soul has been dried up to the very core.

I crave for more knowledge. I crave for more education. I crave to keep moving into one historical place into another. I crave drowning myself studying world’s cultural heritage and its background. I crave to hop from one museum to another, learning about its system and its programs. World of selling, marketing, and money is not what I aim for.

All those times, the only time I felt alive the most was when I took two days off to go back to that city and spend three days with my college friends.

This dullness of office life and its routine will slowly drain me until nothing will be left of me. All those money will never satisfy me. This is not what I signed up for.  This is not what I aim for. This is not what I want to do for living. This will only kill me slowly yet as certain as ever.