You Better Work, Girl.

One’s own uniqueness need no affirmations.

Born out of chains of exclusively mixed genes of two different entities, one is unique in one’s own.

But hope not for other people to recognize it. Or give you trophy of appreciation for that.

Among thousands of unique individuals, your name is just another unique combinations of a pair of eyes, ears, a piece of mouth, nose, & tounge.


Your name is a conclusive concept.


Why then, would we care to remember your concept
& risk spending our limited memories on that?

You have to be a very special concept.
Elaborate, branching out, horizontally- vertically complex, & most of all, understandable.


It is thus your duty to make yourself understandable. It is your inherent duty to understand yourself.

Once you understand yourself, you could create presentation suitable for the concepts you carry.


Once your presentation echoes your substance, you are intact.

You are a work of Art.

You are a Beauty in yourself.


But beauties are ephemeral. It is never meant to last. For its fleeting nature is also what makes it a beauty. And humans are dynamic.

You are ever-changing. That makes you beautiful.


There’s more to convincing people that your name worths their memory.
That is, to make good use of the concepts you carry.
To make yourself useful.


Thus you touch other people’s life.
You fill in their gaps. For no humans are perfect.
There has to be holes somewhere, waiting to be intact.


You do this through work.
The work you-in-this-very-minute do & the work the-next-minute-you do will be different.

Just because, you are ever changing.


Thus you work,

to make concepts inherently entrusted to you come to be useful.

You work,
to honour the ever-changing you.


A salutary to Eternity,
you work to honour your Beauty.


That is,



& Exclusively,



Nothing beats the feeling
Of wanting chips so much
Something salty and crunchy
In the middle of the night
That you paused the movie you’re watching
You dragged yourself to reach minimart
To find it closed
And dragged yourself even further to find one that opens
Bought your favourite and took it to your room
Open up the lid and smell it
Took and throw your first piece
Into your watery mouth
Only to find it
Ends up
In your mouth
On your healthy tounge

Nothing beats the feeling of disbelief
Making you reach further to the bottom of the can
To chew much more
Much much more
More more more
Only to find it tastes
Like nothing
Nothing on your tounge

Ever felt so wrong

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It is the usual meadow.
We regularly visit it: the recreational tea field, located at somewhere uphill, two-hours driving distance from odorless capital city where we live.

It is a ritual: we arrived, we ran toward the stable, we chose our own horses, and then we left for the restaurant nearby to grab a cup of lemon tea. Or two. Before we rode our horses.

I wore a cap that day.
A jacket? I think it’s grey. Some shorts and indistinct pair of shoes.

I ride my horse. We went for the usual turn, usual route.
The meadow, the creek, the trees. Every turn I’ve known very well.
Then the guardian asked me,

“Do you mind speeding up?”

Bring it on, I said.

The guardian then smacked the horse’s buttock and it ran faster.
I was thrilled.
And faster.
I was ecstatic.
And faster.
“Wohooo!” I could hear myself saying.
And faster.
Okay, that’s enough.
And faster.
The cap fell from my head. My hair slapped me on the cheek.
And faster.
The corner of my eyes felt wet.
And faster.
Somethings clutched my chest.
And faster.
It was fear.
And faster.
I wish someone would save me.
And faster.
So I screamed.
And faster.
But I’m on my own.
I’ve always been.

I ended up being saved by my dad. That was 10 years ago.
And now, I can’t keep asking people to fight my battle.

This is me, riding a horse.
Speeding up to the point it starts to pain me, out of fear.
But, uh
what do I fear for?
I can’t stop. I can’t make it stop.
So why should I care of what’s ahead.
I may very well close my eyes right now.
Feel the wind on my skin.

Que sera sera.

We Need To Talk About The Child

A woman, middle-aged, lying on the bed.
She shed tears, overflowing.
Her legs and arms grew limp.
The way saliva drooled from the corner of her mouth.
The way mucus came out of her nostrils.
Oh. The way she pumped out all that tears.
She should’ve passed out any moment now, should she?
Her body seemed inert.
Nobody would’ve imagine her in any other shape.
As if she was made to cry that way, in that precise bed, and that exact position,
For days and days and days.
Until people talk about it and made legend out of it.

But she’s not alone.
There’s a child, watching her. A girl-child.
Her face were stoic.

Isn’t she just lumps of human meat, shaped like human,
which someone just put on the bed, and made to shed tears like human?
Or is she a withered flower?

Sitting beside her, the girl-child didn’t touch the woman.
At all.
Though she’s her mother.

We need to talk about the child
don’t you think?



Gincu tersapu
Celak terseka

Apa pula tertinggal di muka
Selain dari sepasang kristal jiwa
Dibingkai bulu mata, terpancar tatapnya
Menghunus, kata mereka!

Tak sejentik mereka duga
Sungguhnya pada lampu jalanan ia bercinta
Pembuai remuk redam dini hari
Pelempar seleret cahaya di betis
Jatuh segaris dengan peluh manusia rasa amis

Apa pula tersisa di muka
Jika bukan sebentuk lekuk penakluk
Dinaung hidung, tersemat bagai pita
Berbisa, kata mereka!

Sungguhnya gigi kuning rela bersaksi
Tentang pita yang terurai dan merekah
Kala yang empunya bertegur sapa
Tanpa niatan apa-apa

Meski yang berlidah lihai bicara,
Yang melihat lantang menantang,
Kalau tak dikata, manalah mereka kira

Akan kolonye sisa gesekan tiga-empat pejabat
Dada sisa remasan dua-tiga bandot tua
Rambut sisa jambakan satu-dua pemuda gila

Gincu tersapu
celak terseka

Kala mereka tangkap sejejak kerak di muka,
Derai tawa dan tatap darinya kini beda makna.
Buang muka, tak balas sapa.

Kala ditanya, satulah jawab mereka:
Itu lacur namanya!

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A Thousand Times

I want to live a thousand lives,
Feel a thousand vibes,
See through a thousand eyes!

I want to fall into a thousand vices,
And wounded by a thousand lies.

In love for a thousand times,
Broken for a thousand hearts.

Lead a thousand battles,
Slave to a thousand quarrels.

Win a thousand fights,
Lose a thousand more.

Kiss a thousand nights,
Flirt a thousand mornings.

Pray for a thousand dreams,
Curse for a thousand nothings.

Smile a thousand pains,
Cry a thousand bliss.

Being in a thousand shoes,
Build a thousand homes.

Then I die,
A thousand times.

To open up my eyes to a thousand different skies!

I want to live.
I want to live.
I want to live.

A thousand times, I will.

April 13th, 2015



In many aspects of myself, I’m a first time learner.
But in this single regard, I refuse to be a naivete. Especially because it involves sentiments.

You know how young girls’ head are filled with the sparkly, blooming ideas of how their life are prepared for someone special that would take them by the hand and love them no matter their conditions are?
You know how beautiful ladies are convinced that they are indeed beautiful by the increasing numbers of men who either ask them out, text them consistently, pouring out attentions, or giving bouquets/chocolates/or any not-so-conventional offerings with jaw-dropping values?

I am a girl in the beginning of adulthood and I refused to fall into the same trap.
I never considered myself unattractive but I definitely not one of those lassies who would make heads turn when she passes accross the street.
But the numbers of the men are increasing and I frankly am suprised.
Then I remember…
We humans are nothing but thinking beasts, right. To hell with sacred monogamy concept that this thousand years-old civilization has sculpted into our heads.
It has nothing to do with how physically attractive the women are.
Or how beauty, brain, and behaviour translates into gentlemen courting.
This phenomenon is simply born out of general equation that male beasts are drawn to sexually active females to lay their sperms into.
It is a curtsey to adulthood, an encounter women of early 20s prone to experience.

But this frightens me not, no. I don’t take this as a gender-related threat.

As a dear friend kindly identify, I’m an adrenaline junkie.
Despite my consistent wailing on how unhappy I am with all sorts of trouble imposed on me, I like taking things to the extremes. I would love to play along.

Oh, is this proclivity to outwit men shall not be exclaimed loudly?
Is this supposed to be a secret?
Perhaps, perhaps. But I choose not to make it into one.

That’s why I’m calling this a fair play.



Salmons’ life follows a very specific purpose.

They are born near the river source,
Where their journey once starts and will too end.
They fed and fed and fed until they are grown,
Big enough and strong enough for their voyage to the sea.
Thus they swim freely, carried by the stream,
Out to the open sea.

There, they take into them all the goods things the sea can offer.,
The salt, the minerals, the sun!
Until they are tough and fertile enough,
To pursue their journey back home,
To the river they once belonged.

Against the streams they swim,
Upon the cascades they jump,
To the uphill they direct all their energy!
The longer stops they take the weaker they will be.

So they swam, swam, and swam
Until they reach the river where they were once born onto.
This time, they give offerings to the river
The females their womb and the male their sperms
Intricated, united by the water.

Done with giving ways to new lifes, they give up theirs
The purpose’s all done
Muscles are all strained, vivacity’s all drained
Their bodies floating down the river

Some end up in between the fangs of grizzly bears
Some find their way clamped by the beaks of the birds
Some are stranded on the river banks,
and stay that way for days and days and days
Until they have become one with the soil,
letting the goods from the sea immersed to the trees,
urging the greens grow taller than ever.


I think they led a very noble life.

Traffic Light (11 Dec)

I met this man sometime ago and today was the second time we were let in to his house.

We sat in his brand-new wooden gazebo and was supposed to talk about dyslexia but, you know, life is never about how you want it to be, so suddenly the wind of conversation changed into many directions we could no longer get a grip on. It was fun, though.

He talked of how there are people out there posing out as relationship motivator.
Despite ridiculing the idea at first, he admitted to be fascinated by one piece of advice he ever heard.
That, getting the ‘right’ person should have never been so difficult. Because, it’s all about sending and receiving the same signal. Green and green. Two people wanting to be together in the first place. Not at all about trying to change the red light into green–it will be just a waste of time.Yellow light is not tolerable either, because once the person found his/her green, he/she will surely dispose her yellow.

And I wondered whether that applied too to all things we wanted in life. Moments, jobs, people, places.
I believe it is.

Then I suddenly feel the strong urge to be back home.
I just need to be at home.
Among the people who will accept me regardless condition, time, moment.

On my way back in the train,
Friend of mine asked,
“Why is it you tend to hurt people without you knowing it?”
I answered, of course because I didn’t realise what I did apparently hurt people.
I am aware, though, how I tend to take too much more than I can give–and that’s bad.
I can’t keep those who matters to me. Things that are important to me. And when they’re gone, I don’t struggle. I don’t fight for them. I only feel emptier. Bit by bit.
I also am aware that I am present at the expense of other people.
I know they have to put out greater energy just to have me between them.
It cost them lot.
And I can never pay them back.

I am home now.
It’s just so good to be among people who accept me without expense–my father and brother.
In few weeks ahead I may visit my mother and sister too. Then my grandfather, grandmother, and my cousins–who all live in one roof.
I haven’t been home consecutively for more than a day.
In last two years, I can’t remember a time I visitted home without having specific interest.
I usually came back to take clothes. Or having to meet my friend nearby my house.
This is the first in last two years.
Father made a remark how odd it is for me to come home in the middle of the week, just for a day, without prior notice.
(I texted him an hour before I took the train)

But other than that, he still treated me the same.
Making sure I’m all stuffed. Offering good dine and some well-known local kebab he and my brother happened to take liking lately.
Mundane conversations–which are all good.
Everything’s good.
I’m just so happy to be home.