Category Archives: Personal

from a conversation with two women in their mid-20’s who soon are going to attend another friend’s lavish wedding, and all of them happen to be my dear darling friends, it is decided that:

a marriage is a state of mind.

regardless your age, your mind-blowing independence, your financial security, or your maniacal family intrusion, you’ll never be able to force a marriage into you, unless your mind says “i do.”

wholeheartedly.

peer pressure? now that’s something.

what’s your take?

In writing a screenplay, a screenwriter is constantly told by his or her own consciousness to define characters on the written screenplay through their actions. How one behaves or reacts to situations surrounding them truly reflect their truest characters in real life.

Point taken.

Yet, knowing that bad screenplays come out more often than the good ones, what we often see on both big and small screens are passive (main) characters who do not create anything to happen in their lives. In screenplay-writing terms, this kind of unfortunate mishap is better known as “off-the-page”. The passive characters are the kinds that seem to stand or look still, and having their presence reduced to minimum throughout the storylines, usually we hardly relate to them, making it hard to create sensory connections, be it empathy or hatred.

Such a numb experience, leaving a devastating effect in a long run.

Why these passive characters exist? A simple and quick answer to this question would be to provide a counterbalance for the active ones, in order to achieve that stated ‘status’. By any means, the kind of mindless response is perfectly fine. However, if we are willing to dig deeper, we might be able to retrieve many more possibilites why they have to exist. Or rather, we might want to derive any possible causes why they exist on the first place.

Let’s see.

Passive characters wait for some things to happen. As stated above, they’d rather wait than create. They believe that they will cause things to happen around them through their minimum act of doings. Of course, the means to achieve whatever intentions they have might be some intangible tools we are hardly aware of. Mantra, prayers, these kind of things have greater chances to be perfectly abused of from their holy initial usage.’

If waiting is not vivid enough in depicting the characters, perhaps it is best to say as well that the passive creatures carry too much pride within themselves. So much so with this pride emblem applied inside their heads and minds, this elite club will remain elite eternally, because they will go to the distance in preserving the pride. Stooping low to get to the dirty core of life is strictly a no-no option, because pride, or often disguised with another word called ‘dignity’, is something too fragile to gamble.

In other words, that particular famous Jane Austen’s novel should be re-titled as Pride and Patience, and what we get to see is a novel resembling the line shown in a monitor next to a dead patient. Straight. Linear. Freakingly straight line with no dynamic movement.

Thus, no matter how we dress up these characters, they are bound not to create any spark within us to notice. They choose to hide themselves under the thick particle of dust, while looking at better things ahead from a faraway place, and binoculars are not a must option in this session.
And they will keep thinking:

“Maybe it’s better to stay this way. Maybe this is the good thing to come. Maybe, I have become way too comfortable in this.”

Maybe. But at the moment, my question to myself on being the kind of people I’ve uttered for the previous 500 words so far is:

“Have you been right all along, that some people are best left to be appreciators rather tan doers, because they’ll never be good in doing what passionate them most?”

I can’t face the answer.

so i am addicted to this absence,
which drives me further to making numerous attempts of earning a penny or two maybe,
and not penning my own journal for free.

so i am addicted to the nights,
the companion of flesh and snack,
of two gay guys, one fag hag, and one helluva drinker,
of green teas, or normal ones in alternate.

so i am addicted to the city,
the coffee meets the riots,
leaving me stuck in the unlikely space,
of yuppies, of tough guards, of breezing condensed air.

so i am addicted to you,
the lover of my life,
the hairy bear of my life,
the shivering thoughts sending the hair at the back of my neck rising.

so i am addicted to this life,
of uncertainty, of impossible dream,
of unclear destination, of mindless people and their hopeless defense,
of ambiguity, and the likes of it.

so i am addicted to myself,
living the life i yet to lead.

for the past two weeks, i went back living the life i have been very familiar with. being in a comfort zone could not be more exhilarating than this, where people know you for who you really are, and you are free to roam around the city without worrying about what cannot be done to fill your time.

the friends remain the same, their dreams remain afar.

the temptation to go back is always there to lure you, and it cannot be any greater than this time around. after all, what’s not to like about your own comfort zone?

actually, that’s the key of treating this comfort zone. you hate it.

you loathe it by cursing it with the most comprehensive list of cursive words you can ever think of. you despise it by resisting that living in this zone would only drag you down. you hate it to death.

and by doing so, you keep on living nicely and comfortably till you love it.
and that’s the point where you realize you cannot live in any other places.

and you keep on complaining.

and i wish to quit that.

i just wish to live where i can be living.

sadly, it’s not here.

————

who are you? i am a writer.
what do you do? i write.
how do you live? i live.

i know i’m supposed to continue telling you all about my bali trip, but the past few days were quite busy days for me.
who says one can relax in a comfort zone?
but then again, as i’m turning 27 in less than 24 hours, i’d like to pen a few words to commemorate this special day.

commemorate?
i don’t know if i’m entitled to apply such a big word to describe my life, but here goes.

——————————————

In the past, and until now, my dad has always stressed this point to me:

“No matter what you do, be responsible for it.”

Thus, he left me choosing what I wanted to become by enrolling myself in theatre and linguistic as my subjects during my hectic college days. He left me embarking on a corporate work-life, because he knew that soon enough, I got tired of it. He left me cooking on my own, because he knew that he could not eat what the food I made, somehow against his metabolism.

And he left me living the life I am doing now.

While like any common father-and-son relationships we hardly talk about our private life, we have one common faith to each other to keep the trust of being responsible in everything.

Of course, that includes love department.

After more than three decades of marriage, my mum and dad retain their romance, which by now has blossomed into longevity. Sticking to each other for more than half of their lives, I could not stop wondering if it is the same feeling when they began falling in love in those heydays of early 70s, or the love has diverted them to the direction of responsibility.

I used to believe that there are things greater than love in the forte of relationship, one of them being respect. Respect our companion, but more importantly, respect myself as the carrier of consequences in choices. Thus, it leads me to the responsibility itself.

Now, in the passage of my life that soon reaching the number of 27, have I been responsible for what I’ve chosen?

I may need a generous help of other people to give an objective review for that. But what I know from what I’ve been through, I can’t be more comfortable with the life I’ve led so far.

For sure, it has never been easy with the ups and downs, more with my recent decision to leave my comfort zone, and start a new life in what seemingly a chaotic place. The struggle to get through the harshness of life on a daily basis seems to be getting harder only to realize that no matter who I am with, the journey has to be taken all alone.

And losing my own identity to be replaced with being known as somebody’s friend, somebody’s boyfriend, almost takes the meaning of ‘whoring’ to a literal level.

Yet, at the end of the day, I can always look at them with laughter of relief, gladness and other jovial expression to which I can’t always describe vividly. I can always kiss my pillow, sometimes with a teardrop or two, while switching on my laptop to play some meaningful tunes. I can always send an email or two, blurting out whatever things I feel like telling to my friends. They are never away.

A cup of coffee or two, an hour or five, a lifetime unlike any other.

Here’s to my solemn birthday tomorrow.

That, just like any relationships, no birthdays would ever be so perfect. That no matter what, I guess my ultimate birthday wish will never get fulfilled.

That I’ve gotta be more than ready to be responsible of what I choose to be in life, and whom I choose to be with.

Of course, I always have the right to choose who and who I will have my birthday dinner with this year.
I doubt if they are my blog readers, hahaha!

Cheers!

Nauval.

the journey had started a day earlier actually, right at the heart of the chaotic city, and it’s none other than … plaza indonesia!

being cosmopolitan people who refuse to downgrade the class by shopping at middle-class supermarket with fake french names like carrefour, why didn’t we just settle to the privilege nearby? after all, we stayed in pejompongan, and this made our whole preparation easier by acting posh while shopping in such a luxurious place.

there it went, filling our bags with staple of food that included two loafes of bread, jams, crackers, snack, and complete the stylish shopping with snatching a pair of sunglasses with white frames. it is really a smaller version of the one audrey hepburn wearing in ‘how to steal a million‘! finally my goddess, we share something in common, after years of worshipping you.

and i’m sure, audrey, whenever you travelled during the heydays of hollywood, you always had it with you your fabulous collection of clothes, hats, bags, scarfs, the whole closet of yours. while we are not in the same department, i’ll just settle with bringing my precious whitey, my tiny weeny silvery, and the connector to the world.

i was set, nyottie was set, we were all set!

and this time, bali would never be the same.

from
the 4-hour delay. ogoh-ogoh. benoa. the silence day. the korean guest officer. beaches. double six. sand on martini. kudeta. seaside. bye bye nokia. honeymooners. ryoshi. ubud. welcome ericsson.

to
esplanade. holland village. west side story. gay plays. hostel. nude bars. hectic meetings. rushing deadlines. full-time jobs. sight and sound.

… let me have a little sleep, please …

Like all of you reading this blog, I was born to this world from the womb of my beloved mother, as a result from my parents’ act of love.

Throughout the years of my upbringing, I felt blessed that I grew up in what you may consider a perfectly normal, if not ordinary, household, where me and my sisters experienced what it was like to have our own jackfruit tree we were so very proud of, and that old red ‘80s Honda Civic taking us to our late grandmother’s place in other province.

Those were the days when we were often encouraged by our parents to show the world what we had. Shamelessly and tirelessly, both of them always stood by my side whenever I turned up in any talent contests, be them from singing or modeling ones. You are reading the words of an ex-model now!

Little would I know that behind the supportive acts, they had personal problems on their own, like any normal married couples do. It took me a while to understand that my mother often felt frustrated not to meet her husband who was away for work in a long time, or the times when my dad went out for fresh air to clearly avoid heated debates at home which I never heard directly on the first place.

But look what he brought home a few hours later? A packet of martabak for all of us!

The phone did not ring, no words were spoken, and it was hardly the time mobile phones existed. Yet, in what seemed like a silent agreement, they made up. He washed his hands in our small kitchen, she set the table, and we had supper. Life has gone on.

And a good 32 years later from the day they exchanged vows, they continued to love each other, setting an example for me to follow.

Or so they wish me to.

For almost 27 years of my existence in this world, I always yearn for having a companion by my side, simply longing to love and be loved in return, like anyone would wish to.
When I could no longer deny my likings on different kind of love to embark on, I could not find any proper guidance or direction telling me how I should behave and place myself in this kind of relationship. Except one.

I have the example as set by my parents.

Thus, despite the difference, all I know about love and relationship is mirrored what my parents have done for a good three decades. They love each other without asking much, or telling much. They love each other in silence, they love each other in unspoken rages that fades quickly. They love each other in sharing a common space without complaining much, or praising much. They love each other by sticking to each other, be it on the lowest level of degradation, or at the highest euphoria.

My relationship with twinnie has somewhat become static recently. Gone are the days of exchanging mushy entries in both our blogs, and if you happen to see any in mine, well, what can I say? My blog is my home where I have all the endless privileges to decorate it any way I want.
I cannot stop lamenting through some thoughtful process often filled with temptation to lure myself to others. After all, it is not easy to pass through the time without intimacy to satisfy my ego being a lustful human. Yet, what constantly slips through mind telling me of something else.

I want to stick with twinnie for good.

The hard and harsh times may be tough to get through, and writing this entry against the rain in the wee hours of the morning leaving me shedding some good tears. The tears that I often saw when I sit next to my mum who missed her man when she had not met him for months. The tears that I am now having because I miss him.

I know I do.

Does he?

For those surviving the horrible hairdos of 80s in Indonesia, and I don’t hesitant in pointing this to people like Rio, Pram, Qyu, Irvan, or the likes of them, they surely remember one unthinkable event, if not unpredictable, coming from one of the ministers known for his famous trademark: waiting for a further guidance from Mr. President.

It happened that during a ceremony held in his office, suddenly he began singing a verse from this song, Hati Yang Luka (A Tormented Heart), one of the iconic Indonesian songs of the era. He continued singing the song in full to the amazement of the participants. When he finished, they burst into laughter and clapped their hands, only to have their moods changed within seconds as the minister declared such sappy and tear-jerking songs were deemed inappropriate for the development of youth in this country.

I couldn’t really recall if there were further bans to those kind of songs from being played in radios or broadcasted on television, but it created quite a fuss among people involved in music industry, and these people objected his one-sided statement by continued creating those melodramatic tunes. For once, such a bravura act of democracy really started that early.

Now, looking back to the event, I could only wonder what would happen if the ban was applied, and no one bothered to protest about it.

Maybe every single guy were forced to listen only to macho group like KISS, Metallica, AC/DC, but not TOTO, especially with the songs like I’ll Be Over You, that’s considered haram maybe. The girls would tie their hair like a ponytail while humming traditional folk song like Ampar-ampar Pisang, but not the love-themed song like, well, can anyone care to mention any traditional songs with mellow themes? I run out of any example here.

Maybe I would never follow the step of my sister who used to be so crazy over New Kids on the Block and Tommy Page, and maybe I would never be able to memorize any Debbie Gibson’s songs. And maybe I would never hear about many more heart-rending songs in many years to come, just like the one I listened to this morning, the kind of song that affected my mind in coming to terms with whatever I am having right now.

These are the songs that, magically, translate whatever we may wish to say to whomever we want these songs to be dedicated to. It does not take a radio to filter my wish, for I only wish the song below to tell my twinnie, who almost never read my blog these days, about my wish.

If that unfortunate minister shall rise again, perhaps I let an orchestra playing that tacky song he condemned on whatever future ceremonies he might carry.

Anyway, nyot, here’s to you.

I thought sometime alone / was what we really needed
You said this time would hurt more than it helps / but I couldn’t see that
I thought it was the end of a beautiful story
And so I left the one I loved at home to be alone
And I tried to find out this one thing is true / that I’m nothing without you
I know better now / and I’ve had a change of heart

I’d rather have bad times with you / than good times with someone else
I’d rather be beside you in a storm / than safe and warm by myself
I’d rather have hard times together than to have it easy apart
I’d rather have the one who holds my heart

………………………………………

I can’t blame you if you turn away from me like I’ve done to you
I can only prove the things I say with time
Please be mine

I’d rather have bad times with you (please be mine) / than good times with someone else (I know that)
I’d rather be beside you in a storm (anytime) / than safe and warm by myself
I’d rather have hard times together than to have it easy apart
I’d rather have the one who holds my heart

I’d rather have bad times with you (surely) / than good times with someone else (surely)
I’d rather be beside you in a storm / than safe and warm by myself
I’d rather have hard times together than to have it easy apart
I’d rather have the one who holds my heart

I’d rather have the one who holds my heart

(luther vandross – i’d rather)

Tacky?
I’d like to think it as thoughtfully and creatively corny.

Here’s the thing. I miss driving.

The sheer sensation of behind the steering wheel, the wind blowing your hair rising to the air …

OK, it only happens in lame music videos of ‘80s.

But in reality, I don’t get that much opportunity to drive a car, especially not in my previous comfort zone where having a car is a very distant dream, and simply I don’t find it necessary to rent one since the public transportation system there is highly reliable. Why not make use of it then? And even after I leave the zone for good, I haven’t decided whether I should register for a driving license there or not.

Whereas in this chaotic city, it’s my own conscience of choice to opt for not driving. The horrendous traffic jam where crimes might happen within seconds, in addition to not knowing the road system, somehow discourage me to do my own driving here.

Thus, the only time for me to drive a car is when I am in my hometown, a newly-developed city which still has the atmosphere of an old town, where you can drive with the sight of greenery mountain within your horizons. It couldn’t be more perfect when I went there at the tip of last year, as I drove this old car every morning against the misty air with breezing winds, and for once, I did not bother to turn the air conditioner inside the car.

Perhaps such a pleasant experience is what drives me to do my own driving at this time around. But more than that, everytime I start hitting the road while changing gears, my mind would start wandering to any thoughtful thoughts. From thinking about what to have for dinner to whether I can get a call back from my last night’s date, thankfully I never hit another car until now, and let’s hope so for the rest of my life.

But one thing I’d like to think about shall I drive a car right now is the fact that our lives are surrounded with lies.

Lies are what bring life to our lives, as what I’d like to believe so.

Especially in a relationship, couples lie, cheat, and hide what’s needed to hide all the time, while they are faithfully holding their loves to their respective partners. It may be sad to come to the realization of such a fact, but some people choose to go on with these lies, and presuming the other parties being naïve or innocent.

Maybe our beloved ones know, so we think. But then maybe they have their own dirty laundries as well, so we assume.

The circle would go on, and so is the relationship itself, that takes two to keep each of their own secrets carefully.

Just like driving, sometimes you cheat, by not obeying what street signs telling you, and when you get caught by the police, you utter some excuses while wishing for the police to let you off with your little trick. And while you say that you will not do it anymore, who knows what the future brings? As long as the destination is reached, any roads can be taken, no matter what.

As long as the relationship is kept, sometimes, make it most of the time, we play ignorant to what our partners are doing. I am not in a good position to tell you if this is healthy or not, although you cannot hide that look of being depressed, but whatever state your mind is, be sure to keep your friends and diaries around, to let your feelings out.

Just like what Sheryl Crow says,
“Lie to me / I promise / I believe / Lie to me / But please / Don’t leave”
(Strong Enough – 1994)

And it took me a good twelve years to finally understand the consequences of the lies while painfully accepting them as what they are. At least, it takes me to lie as well when I claim, “I’m fine!”

I guess I really need that driving license next time I pay a visit to my comfort zone. It’s meant to make you feel comfortable, and for certain times like these, I couldn’t agree more.

Happy driving, while lie yourself to relax.

Acay, my dearly beloved housemate, once, in a slightly blatant manner, gave this horrifying statement about me:

“you’re such a romantic!”

Immediately I looked at him in return, somewhat confirming while disbelieving at the same time to what the effect the words might bring.

The very notion of being romantic as applied in a person would lead me thinking about how one responds to every single occurrence in his life. I imagine that he breaks down to sing while he complains about his boring life, the way Audrey Hepburn belts How Long Has This Been Going On? in the film Funny Face. He might also boast off his macho quality, only to turn meek within minutes the way John Travolta shifts from Summer Loving to Sandy in Grease. Or simply mimicking Gene Kelly when we fall in love by Singin’ In The Rain. Talk about suffering (from flu) for love!

As you see, there are always songs to sing in every mood we unexpectedly encounter within ourselves in every day basis, or even every minute when one falls in love.

I certainly give my wholehearted vote for such a spontaneous activity.

When I set my heart on someone, my mind turns into a number of songs before I go to sleep while thinking about what the future might bring, and when I wake up in the morning, I will hum my way to the shower and to the kitchen for breakfast, and all the way while sitting on a bus, on the way to the office.

I told Kenny once that I always made a love-song compilation CD to all my ex-es, something I used to consider as a must when I began to embark on new relationships with them. The early euphoria stage of just-the-two-of-us-in-the-world, ah …!

Yet, the flame started fading away as the relationships began to dim, and the CD was hardly played anymore, or not even being mentioned towards the break-ups. What I just realized this morning is the fact that I seldom have a break-up song when the relationships ended.

I wonder if this is derived from the fact that, aptly enough, I don’t do ex-es in general? Or actually the very hard-pressed mental-block in me preventing my mind to come up with any romantic treatment towards my ex-es?

As much as I began with songs, I would love to end with songs as well.

Thus, at the wee hours of this morning, I set my ears on this beautiful song that has been my favorite for quite some time now, in particular to the version as sung by Lisa Ono. Little I realized then that the mere mention of the title can be applied as a bidding goodbye while wishing continuous prosperity of love to these dearly ex-es.

Thus, I wish them love.

To the one who has settled for good.

To the one who went on to become a lecturer, a story-teller, and now, an emerging filmmaker. Wow! I wonder if I did contribute a tiny weeny influence to your fulfilling life here.

To the bastard (hey, I’m only a human being!) who has been immortalized in my life as the single inspiration of my long-delayed book called How To Survive A Travelling Trip With Your Ex.

To the one who … I don’t know, somehow the existence of any adjectives, both good and bad, quickly diminish when I begin thinking of you. It was sweet all along, although hardly memorable. That’s the undeniable fact, dear, which I’m sure you understand more than I do.

But it seems that this song is best given to you, and I wish you endless happiness in return. Stay focused.

I Wish You Love

I wish you blue birds
In the spring
To give your heart
A song to sing
And then a kiss
But more than this
I wish you love

All kinds of love
I wish you love

Now, Komang-ers, you may explode in laughter. I’m done here.

Is this the beginning of a lifetime,
When two souls decided to throw a dime,
And have their lives carried away
In every single day?

Is this the beginning of a lifetime,
When the silence begins with mimes,
Soon to be followed by awkward gestures,
Those do not get any better with hardly trained postures?

(still a little bit of your taste in my mouth)

Is this the beginning of a lifetime,
When behaviors find their rhymes,
To indicate that acceptance begins to rise,
Hiding a trace of unspoken hatred lines?

Is this the beginning of a lifetime,
When the clock ticking at nine,
And you begin to wonder,
Of his untold wander?

(still a little hard to say, what’s going on?)

Is this the beginning of a lifetime,
When boredom becomes a doom,
Finding yourself alone in a room,
While crying over Fly Me To The Moon?

Is this the beginning of a lifetime,
When you start taking me for granted?

Is this the beginning of a lifetime,
When the tree tender words becoming an automated saying?

(still a little bit of your face, I haven’t kissed)

Is this the beginning of a lifetime,
When ignorance is finally a bliss?

Is this the beginning of a lifetime,
When we begin to feel frightened to hurt each other?

Is this the beginning of a lifetime?
When we are able not to let each other know of our misfits?

(still a little bit of your songs in my ear)

Is this a lifetime sentence?

(still a little bit of your words I long to hear)

Is this a lifetime destiny?

(step a little closer to me, so close that I can see what’s going on)

Is this a lifetime miracle?

Is this a lifetime love?

(love taught me to lie)

Is this a lifetime happiness?

Is this final?

(when you flow like a cannonball)

– with excerpts of cannonball by damien rice –

It happens that these two singletons are both the only children in their respective families.

It happens that both of them, in their own different timings, miraculously decided to touch the keypads on their cellphones, to be connected to my mobile number, and the chats could not be more different from one another.

It happened not a long time ago, in one of the nights where I could not be more thankful of any companion, yet the memories of them could go as far as my existence began to, gramatically shameful, exist.

Especially with the first one, my one old friend who came to prominence ever since my tender youth of teen life started.
He is the kind of guy you could envy a lot. Charming, good-looking, well-mannered, acutely active listener, any mothers would surely push their daughters to poison him to unconscious sleep, so that he can father many children later. Yes, I am influenced by those highly imaginative soap operas, something that I used to watch together with his mum whenever we had to wait for him while he had to give his girlfriend a ride home.
Make that ex-girlfriend though.

Three years apart, three changes of email addresses, three times of many unfortunate events both of us failed to witness, three hundreds of messages in both online messenger services and cellphones which only consisted of an icon or simple words such as “I am stressed out”, we will finally meet again.

I don’t want to think how it is going to be, nor I don’t wanna drown myself in mindless panic of what-should-I-wear madness. Whatever happens, a rare moment of finding something in common rose that night.

People change, and for once, we do.

Within a short time, the line worked like a mantra spoken over and over again, and you don’t keep a mantra in your memory. You say it out loud, you blurt it out if you have a tendency to be repetitive, and the best thing is to keep telling it to yourself.

People change. So do I.

And that’s exactly what I am going to tell him.

Just like how I am going to tell to my second single friend on the spotlight here, one special guy who deserves royal treatment, as credited to his penchant for what I always yearn for in life.

To love, and be loved.

The passion for such an affectionate activity is what led him in living a courageous life I wouldn’t think of in the first place. Imagine sacrificing yourself to worthless someone for a great deal of your life and despite the harsh, painful and aching treatment in return, you bravely walk away with a smile, and even a wider smile to embrace the uncertainty ahead.
Perhaps, what he faced is nothing compared to what I did to him.
Who would’ve thought that I could take a tourist to his native country’s embassy?
Yet, he gladly accepted that while I was busy with some vanity project in the embassy, making him the very first friend-as-a-tourist that I brought to, again, his native country’s embassy. A very important tourism object, indeed.

The tale could go on and on, but as each day is limited to 24 hours, it has to stop somewhere, at a certain point that may not satisfy both, or at least, one of us.

But despite the change, the tale would be marked with another chapters ahead, and to have an endless tale that works way much better than those choose-your-own-adventure books is a gift I wouldn’t trade with any.

And I am thankful for that.

(actually, if any of them would really care about me, they should know that I am in a very desperate need of furniture for my new flat, shouldn’t they?)

In this city, heartbreaks happen in every ticking of a clock.

Heartbreaks from settling debts of your car.
Heartbreaks from missing your bus to work.
Heartbreaks from watching a crippled beggar crossing a busy road.
Heartbreaks from not being able to say tender words to your loved ones.
Heartbreaks from realizing your foolishness in misguiding another clueless taxi drivers.
Heartbreaks from knowing that this will not be the only heartbreak you likely encounter.

As I sat on a bus from my sibling’s house in a suburban area officially put in a map as a city in another province to the heart of this chaotic city, I couldn’t help thinking while randomly looking at some passengers who drew certain expressive lines in their faces, mostly covered by thick particle of dust. These people have gone through every single painful heartbreak prior to hopping on this fated bus, yet they silently chose to seat themselves in the broken couches, and marched on with their lives.
An old saying of “life goes on” is the only saying they wholeheartedly apply in facing the toughness of their lives, thus another heartbreak of mine is considered a small, if not nothing, feast they can laugh at.

Maybe it is not even a heartbreak when it comes to a matter of hearts, and make that two of hearts.

A heart belongs to me, and another is twinnie’s.

My relationship with twinnie has been going on for a little more than a year by now, and the fact that I am living in the same city with him has opened a new chapter in my life, i.e. I finally embark in a short-distance relationship.
Being spoiled with a long-distance one, the adjustment has never been easy so far, with a few patches here and there that often almost bogged down the relationship itself.

Worse, being infamously, and some despise as notoriously, known with the reputation of twink-hunter who likes to cruise for young boys in many strategic places, at many times the intolerance took its toll upon me, leaving me feeling depressed and repressed, be them sexually or mentally, while I couldn’t bring the matters up to him.

Early diagnostic of my well-being would be easily concluded as that I am not mentally healthy. I am not raising any objections to the idea, while I still arrogantly keep my defense, a hapless one, by saying that: “I’m fine!”.

Right now, I’d like to keep that statement though.

Why?

Because I addictively love him.

Yes, the meandering activity goes on, the words have been off to the dust, the nights have gone to become meaningless passing of time, but sometimes, despite the heartbreaks, your heart inexplicably tells you to believe.

And I believe in him. And me.

Now, now. The heartbreak and its potential comeuppance really lead to having the fingers playing along in writing such a subjective entry, don’t they?