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Croons.

Somewhere between delusion and awake, or somewhere between Svalbard and South Georgia—I wasn’t sure. Both would’ve been just as scenic, and I didn’t mind much either way.

Under the sunburst and above that utopian grassland, I wrote some mawkish lines of two lovers’ dialogue in your suede-covered journal. You had your ukulele and turned my haiku into serenade. The first story I ever told you was about my incessant wish of becoming a museum curator who got to wear hobble skirt and read Musset’s poem every day, and yours to me was how you regretted of never having your eyelashes trimmed when you were infant, because that way you might now have it prettier as mine. Honey crisps. Bon Iver. English daisies. Summer in Cappadocia. Half of me was captivated by your implausible yet spellbinding lecture about philosophical matters, the rest was enthralled enough as if I was being served a halcyon day of my typical list of blissful things.

You were driving to somewhere between Svalbard and South Georgia, or somewhere between delusion and awake—I didn’t really notice. The radio played The Clientele’s and I laid next to your seat, whistling.

We could walk together

In the jade, and the coolness of the evening light

And watch the crowds serenely flow

Through carnivals of shop windows where elm trees sigh

The summer’s heat is fading

And the clown on the golden lawn holds out his hand

And out there in the fading day

The members of the strange parade play sarabandes

Like a silver ring thrown into the flood of my heart

With the moon high above the motorway

I have searched for all your fragrance in the silent dark

Is that okay?

So why don’t we stick together

With our eyes so full of evening and amphetamine

And watch the fools go rolling on

Through still fields as the darkness falls on England green

—

#inamorata #delusive #wanderlust

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.

Ia adalah sederhana, bagaimana jagat raya menuntun pulang pada pertemuan. Seperti pula bahasa yang bisu dengan gestur malu milik dua pasang sepatu coklat dan ungu di bawah meja makan sore lalu, diiring dialog tentang jalan berlubang, keramik marmer, trotoar sempit yang tidak ramah, serta rak di beranda pada sembilan puluh pagi tanpa satu sama lain.

Ia tidak pernah lebih rumit dari kelabu yang memayungi kota, mengantar yang mengelana ke angkasa untuk pulang menyuburkan rumah.

#inamorata #zero fiction

High School

She fears witlessness. In a world where infinite possibilities of what-ifs or whatnot offered all along, she fears that part of perpetuity where she never once became a part of it and that she would remain questioning about how was that life before the story of her emerged. She fears just the whole lot that she is unfamiliar with. To the nameless and unmapped gigantic galaxies, the untouched seafloor miles beneath our feet, the God she never knows the look and all; she sails her concerns to. And some pages of his storybook which do not intertwine with her presence. All those question marks, all those queries remain.

If welfare was the tag end for yesteryear and bygone times of his, is her presence ever to make a prologue of another relish span?

#half-fiction #sentimental #inamorata #delusive #counterfeit

Oneiric

After straight four hours of watching people wearing satins passing entrances.

/their own kind of today/

Adolescents standing on the dais wear bright sweatshirts, some with knitted vests, as well as harem pants with monochromatic chiffon shirt, all hymning twee to dreamwave if not shoegaze to lo-fi tunes with whimsical lines they have curated the list before—sometimes the bands do not mind doing Scandinavian folk for special order—and her (second) favourite person on Earth at the moment is the boyish-haired girl with xylophone. Filigrees with white to peach blossoms all over the hall, befitting the magenta-coloured flamingo installation near the doorway. Kids wearing pearly tulles to adults wearing ivory brocades surround the portico along with sous-chefs dishing up cannellonis from table to table. It is, as well, a day of free lilies and narcissus giveaways, planted in a mini garden with prairies and white bicycles also sunflowers, then young girls with shimmering eyes pick a few—or sometimes the dudes who do for their spouse. White birds cages on few corners, next to collages of polaroid pictures and personal hand sketches of two humans hardly able to survive their bliss at the moment: some were still life glances of incomplete pictures, some others were slices of two humans’ daily wander in a town wearing blouse and lace coupled with sweatshirt and chino. The room was all dimmed in yellow; some former fellows with tuxedos singing favourite musics from the good old days; young ladies wearing similar pinafores hand vintage frills to the invitees; hugs and happy faces shared; everybody dances the whole night away;

but then she runs out of paint.

#zero fiction #inamorata #counterfeit #delusive #inamorato

September is Almost Over

Humans. Shrewd creatures which we agreed of—more or less—having too much pleasure of obfuscating whatnot. The discerning living beings born to be experts of adjudging and construing, if not misinterpreting at times. Some were made those ways, some were even overthinkers. And we sadly are just part of our nature that made us see each other through hazy window behind a fast-moving train: forever uncertain about what we actually witness.

That was how earlier times of all these began. Before things fell into places, yet after some first unforeseen keepsakes. After I had myself forsaken the entire lists of never-happening, yet before I had myself recognised that I might now have one assured opportunity of having the entire lists come true at long last. In the middle of, “Is it a pleasant wrong turn once again?” or a simple, “Hey is that it?”

Then half of the latter, I saw me take a leap of faith of mine. Abridging the disbelief, disregarding the hesitant, and there we were. One midday took place and from those fast-moving trains that had stopped their trails, hazy windows next to our seats began to come clear. Mon chéri, it is an arrival we made.

Now rephrase me the story of how and when we interlock in the same frequency.

#zero fiction #sentimental #inamorata #inamorato

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.

But now, that look you’re wearing. That distant laughter that teases me to stay awake when I am in the wee small hours watching outlandish cityscape of unfamiliar citizens’. Those pale nail colours I peculiarly could memorize which I desire to caress soon. The whiff of typical warm air which we breathed in and out together when we walked side by side down the alleyways of a city we were born in.

I might now,

have fallen for the idea of stopping myself from going. To, instead, be home,

to only sit and

settle down.

In times of yore, I’d be thousands of miles away from everyone I knew and still be safe and sound.

But in the long run, home sounds just nice.

#pure fiction #wanderlust #sentimental #inamorata #counterfeit #delusive

Tryst

I am not a man of the present. I am recurrently ripped into part of me that clinged to the lingering past and a bit of me that agonizes the imminent future; particularly when I am undergoing seconds consisting of our tryst. At times we consume together, half of my emotions possess the joy of being surrounded by your existence, and the other half survives the unforeseen blues of fearing that this may not last long as I would like. I am, once again, not a man of the present. Certain piece of me wants to remain in the existing contentment, but the other opposes it with thoughts traversing time and phases I never want to befriend.

And those harmful notions comprising ideas of what-ifs, the kind of harmful contemplation for a defenseless mind of mine. What if; there would be hundreds of places where you feel so much more unharmed more than this seat next to me? What if; there are bunches of human beings that ease you more than I am able to do? What if; there have been times you spent with one and all where—for even if just a momentary period—you felt safe and sound for my absence? What if; I am just sentimentally diffident that it would by and by perturb us?

#half-fiction #sentimental #inamorata

Longship Noir

Slices of cold toast next to pairs of patterned socks, stranded in the corner of the ruffled futon. Few creased notes on the wall prompting how many weeks remained before departure. Windows opened behind untied draperies conveying waft from elsewhere. The loose end of a daybook with picturesque illustrations and few lines of children’s storybook. Empty cartons of instant popcorn, outmoded jumper with particular men’s odor, colourful inks from leaking pens, Dutch dictionary’s pages found in shreds, bleached trousers hung above fridge; everything was as misplaced as the summer downpour that is occurring outside. Cellphone thrown few centimeters away from falling down from the hammock, suddenly vibrates.

“Hello, there.”

And she just knows rainbow would betide even after cloudburst.

#half-fiction #inamorata #counterfeit #delusive

Everything's Overrated

One troublesome noon spent in a bustling enterprise and newscast was harsh as expected.

Should’ve been more original, could’ve gone to an art college overseas, would’ve had more excuses not to get involved in politics.

#half-fiction #societal

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