Once I had a bestfriend who loved me too much, and while since then he was most envious of my indifference, I was the one who should be more jealous of him.

To love (almost) unconditionally, and to know. To accept.

On our current predicament

I have friends and relatives in Egypt.

& I know I’m being ungrateful, or even selfish, but there’s this part of me that’s (perhaps inappropriately) envious. Especially given the current circumstance.

I wanna live on the edge. Where you risk losing everything and nothing at the same time. I want to soak in the exhilaration. Flirt with death and relish the temporary self-proclaimed anarchy. To scream along to burning vehicles. To feel nothing and everything. To hold hands in protest. To see things people sing about taking place right in front of me. To be part of history.

Save lives. Be saved myself.

I need to believe there is still hope and where else is best to find it but the very place where all hope is seemingly lost?

I want to go to a place at war.

(I must be going mental)

I want to contribute a voice, a service. I just, want to be there.

Most of all, I need a feeling. I need something to fight for.

Kosong.

dalam kekosongan juga ada kata?

ada makna?

ada rasa.

tolong cari lagi.

tolong cari aku dalam kekosongan ini.

If my fifteen year old self were to see me like this, she would click her tongue and save me from this neck-deep mess. She would clean me up and tell me to pull myself together, that the world is my oyster, that one day I'll win the Nobel and marry a handsome lord. If my fifteen year old self were to be here, you'd probably fall in love with her and she would ignore you.

If she knew this is what was going to happen, she wouldn't have readily given herself to the world and turned into me.

You can never survive this unscathed.

Once there was a village located next to a long stretch of train tracks. The village was old, the faces there were stale and bored minds longed for the outside world, to jump on the train and lose themselves in the infinite possibilities that lie somewhere at the end of the tracks. The desire was strong in each of them, choking their hearts and whispering night and day night and day and night; especially at night when sounds were loudest. The whisper went slow at first "I wish I can go away I wish I can go away" and then it slowly picked its pace like a train leaving its station "IwishIcangoawayIwishIcangoawaygoawaygoaway" and the momentum consumed them.

But no one ever got on the train, because as much as they'd like to, they could never leave.

R

You told me to write a letter to you, and I asked you why. You shrugged and looked away and the subject was dropped.

I cannot write a letter to you because there was too much to say and there were too little words. What would you have me write? That I look for excuses to talk to you longer on the phone, or if we were in the car? That I get annoyed if you ask me to rest instead of seeing you because I prefer the latter? That I replay the conversations we've had in my head and smile? That I look for your car whenever we drive past its usual parking space? (Or the fact that I feel sad and a little lonely now that it's vacant?) That I look for you at all?

In my head I did exactly that, I wrote many letters to you.

I kept them in my eyes, I locked them behind pursed lips. But if you listen; you'll find them screaming between skipped heartbeats, in every impulse, as loud as the ocean.