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!

P1200909 P1200910

P1200891 P1200892

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

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.


She’s here
and she refuses to leave
She’s here,
she has always been here,
and I know
she will always be here.

I thought I had got over her, until recently.
I was in the middle of conversations. Lively, blaring, loud ones.
We were out of town. It was not so long after dusk we gathered ourselves on a nearby fast-food restaurant.
We had our own cup of chocolate-glazed sundae ice cream.
We were having fun.
One of my friend asked me to draw a character in a way that reflects the character’s profession, and to assign a name and age I prefer for the character.
I was given three minutes to do it.
I sketched whatever pops out in my head, and hand it to my friend.
She ‘read’ it.
She asked a few question out of my drawings.
She pointed out that something, something terribly essential must’ve been absent from my life.
I didn’t know what, neither did she.
Then it slipped out her lips.
“Quiet, isn’t it.”
“Everything around us.”

Then SHE bursted out just then.
The feeling I thought I’ve neglected over a year ago.
Something I thought only as a phase of this whole coming-of-age drama. I thought it will be all over. I’ll pass through it when the time has come.
And I’ve passed it. Or so I thought.
But no. SHE wouldn’t be too easy to fool.
SHE has never left. SHE only lingers deeper, waiting for the right time to crawl back to the surface.
And grabbed my feet out of alarm.
There SHE was. SHE is cruel.
Right then and there, SHE dragged herself towards me right at the time I was among my companion.
False sense of being guarded. False sense, indeed.
Who would have thought of vacuum space,
immediate silence,
whilst engaging in a chatter of twenty people something?
Loud and gay as they screeched their say on the top of their lungs?

Not even I had the chance of sensing her grip
That the floor under me turned into trapdoor
and I fell
Down into the pitch dark pit
Whilst looking upward, to the hole of bright white light
Grewing even smaller by seconds
Hands were stretching out restlessly
Reaching out nothing but the air.


The boy feels it in the air: this is the moment.
He has a good sense of premonition, he always does.
He doesn’t need to explain it in words—he just knew
through his primal instinct.
Often, he complains on how the instinct dominates him more than his logic does.
Like, when that night it gave vigour to his hands to reach for the girl’s head—and kiss her on the lips.
His logic cursed him afterwards.
The girl giggled at this.
But I like it, she said.

The boy is assured this is the moment.
Once missed, never comes back.
So he decides to grab it, hold along the rope, and jump.
He stretches his hand for the girl to catch.
But the girl stays still.
“I can’t,” she says. “I belong to the earth.”
The balloon moves upward. Constantly so and never hesitates.
The time is running out. In split seconds there’ll be no chance to convince her.
There’ll be no chance for her to change her mind. The boy hoped she knew this.
But she knows this. And she doesn’t falter.
Earth was the only soil she knew she could grow upon.
And yet for him it’s only the sky that could freed his ever venturing soul.
He goes further and futher from the soil she lays her feet upon.
Until he is nothing more than a single dot in the sky, for the girl to see.
Until he’s lost to thousands of ancient dots that’s been shining since the beginning of time.
The earth has the girl stands still:
Feet fixed on the soil she could grow upon
Head tilted upwards
Eyes pierce throughout spaces she has never been through.
Possibilities beyond comprehension
throw sheer light on her heart,
made it a soil so fertile for stories to grow
on, and on, and on.

Curse of The Second Item


Written on 8 Sep 2013
After coming back home from market.

Why do I have to be emotionally attached to things I had? Why, why is it?

How earthy.

My friend has this divine point of view that everything we’ve lost must’ve been due to the upcoming of the better. Shall we lose something, it must because things that we’re holding at isn’t good enough. For us.

I object.

I have been constantly losing things for quite awhile. Things, trivialest things you could imagine.

Things you would never bother lament on. Things you wouldn’t hesitate buying replacement of. Things you wouldn’t keep sentimental feelings for.

I have kept losing hings so often that people get pretty tired putting their sympathy on, since the perpetual sloppiness of mine start to get on their nerves. It’s my fault, purely my fault. I don’t know how do I get so imbecile that I didn’t get to study the patterns of my own treats. Like, how I tend to skip remembering things if I were to focus simultaneously on several hands. To be noted of, I just noticed this when my (other) friend told me so, which I nodded upon. It was ironic that I didn’t notice this myself, after all this time I have been complaining on people inabilities to see patterns of recurring problems. Even donkey doesn’t fall into the same hole twice.

I pitied that I have to learn the hard way. Losing several times, to get it. But things are wronged so that I learn how to make it right, right? Or so I believed.

Recently I bought a green-capped plastic jar. I intended using it for keeping sugar. I like its simplicity, details, its not-that-cheap looking. The size’s just right, and it’s entirely affordable! That triumphant feeling when making a good deal sprout inside of me.

Yet I postponed pouring the sugar into it. Because I haven’t washed it—I postponed washing it. I have been coming back late night for a few days, and haven’t been generous enough to drag myself three storey downstairs just to simply wash the jar with soap. Nope. So I just placed it on the desk, side by side by jars of havermout and tissue box which all possess the same green. Syncing so sweetly that I thought of start liking the colour green.

And today! I wake up pretty much early. I had this urge of doing things—things! What, what shall I do? Ah, right, I owe pouring sugar into the green-capped jar. The day’s still young and I have plenty, plenty time to do things! I brought the jar downstairs and I thought of sterilising it a little more. Since I have time to do that. So I boiled tap water, and once bubbles rippling on its surface, I put the jar in it and—for the love of God—that jar bent inward.


Of course—for Einstein’s sake—it’s effing PLASTIC.
It was utterly sudden and folly and ridiculous that I just stare at the melting plastic, stoicly trying to bent it back and when it failed—still stoicly—I threw it to the trash bin.

What the hell—

I’ll buy the new one, I thought.

So at the afternoon I went to the precise market where I bought the jar  and look for it in the precise shelf I took it from and—it’s no longer there.

Jars are there, but no the exact green-capped one.
I haven’t been a week since I bought it and it’s no longer there why———-
Not those similar to it, not the other colour, I WANT THE EXACT ONE.
I stared ragingly at its of-other-colour siblings, lining up innocently on shelves.

Someone’s playing trick on me, I know.

But why—LORD, I used to think that my losing things roots from my not being grateful for what I have
(‘you don’t know what you’ve got until you lose it’ often chimes very mch for me).
But this! It’s not that I am not grateful for having it—I fond of it!
Very very much that I start to think of liking the colour green!

Yet why, as if by conspirative purpose, I have to damage it today and not earlier so that I could quickly get it replaced (say, if I were meant to damage it to learn that for the love of science: I shall not pour hot boiling water into plastic jar) because of all four color options, it’s coincidentally the green one that ran out of stock so rapidly!
So neatly coincidental that I’m convinced this must’ve not been one of those passerby events. But what does it try to say? That I bear this curse of couldn’t indulge things until it’s second?

I hope universe’s not laughingly conspiring another tricks while I try to decipher this.

(My fear of bearing child suddenly heighten).



There was a time


…when I used to cry just because I don’t write.

No one told me it’s obligatory.
It just started once I get a pocketbook, as a gift from brother’s friend’s birthday party.
Michelle Harriet, her name was.
The first page was about my getting the book, and how I misheard ‘Harriet’ as ‘Karet’, which made me giggle each time the clown exclaim her name.

No one told me it’s obligatory.
Maybe it was something in the way the word ‘diary’ imprinted on the cover sounded imperative for me.
Ever since then, I kept track of things daily. Without amiss.

I was 8 years-old.

Back then, we often went out of town on weekends. Up to the hill, two-hours-driving distanced. We called ‘Puncak’ for this peak of a mountain in neighbouring province. This was not secret escapade plan at all. Most families that have kids seemed to peculiarly share the identical idea on weekends. Traffic jam, hence, was accepted as consequence of the trip.

So someday we went on family trip to Puncak. I didn’t bring the book.
We’re going for some 3 days 2 nights.

When I arrived back at home, I was–like everyone indubitably was–tired.
Were they? I constantly got the impression that they were.
Long driving in the car always seems to get on everyone’s nerves, including those who don’t drive,
even though they’re just sitting.
Plainly sitting. Most of the time, even sleeping. But apparently that drains our energy too.
And not to imply the sort-of-commotion afterwards. The ritual of sorting dirty clothes, unpacking things, bathing properly, etc etc.
All this done in weary mood and worn-out energy and everyone was ready to bark.

I then was strucked by…. the book! I hadn’t written in it for long (it felt quite long).
The thought of having ‘writing debts’ stood me aghast.
I grabbed the tiny book, opened it up, and started writing. Keeping up from what I’d left three days ago.

Yet my body felt so sore and I was so sleepy and things seem to be slipping out of mind I hardly can recall them precisely.
All this, accompanied with inner voices pestering in my head.
Three writings in a row are abundant…
I can’t delay till tomorrow, there will be much more to catch up if I do…
But I’m tired, my lids are ready to fall off….

That’s when I started to cry.
Sobbing, keep on writing, whilst cursing why didn’t I bring the book
and why the hell I have to write this all
and why three days are so much to write down
and some of the tears dropped on the writing

and my dad, upon seeing me crying, gets angry. Why do you cry, silly, he said.

I didn’t answer. What to answer anyway?

I can’t recall what happened after that, but I get this feeling that it ended up happily.
Having some good sleep to reward myself afterwards.


The scene felt distant, like peeping on someone else’s memory.
For I no longer possess the trace of ever being that child.

I skip routines. I scarcely remember I have anything done routinely.
I excuse myself often from tasks I’ve supposed to get done, from efforts should’ve been taken in order to get what I want.
I excuse things that I restrict myself from.



I kinda miss that silly little kid.