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R Nov 2020
My girlfriend of five years was spotted in a club kissing my best friend.

I left the place without a word.

To my surprise, I didn’t feel a thing.

I drove my car at a normal speed. Too nonchalant for someone who just witnessed such betrayal.

I got back home, getting back to my room, and sat on the bed, staring at the ring which was wrapped around my finger.

I didn’t ask why, when, or how. I just thought about them and then there’s that. That they were there. Together. Behind my back.

Was I shocked? Of course. Was I sad? That I can’t tell.

It felt as though my emotions died the moment I saw something I predicted before. Was it supposed to feel like this when I found out?

Was I supposed to feel nothing?

I wanted to punch his face, as well as throwing the engagement ring in front of her face, causing a scene and made both of them embarrassed that they were a pair of undeserving fools, but I just left.

And I didn’t regret it. I didn’t regret seeing their questioning faces when I walked out of the club as if nothing happened.

And why was I more bothered with the fact that I didn’t feel anything than knowing my girlfriend cheated on me with my best friend?

What was it from me that had died unnoticed?
R Jun 2020
Sahabatku selalu bilang, hidup adalah sebuah gedung yang ditempa oleh mimpi. Mimpi adalah pilar terkuat untuk hidup. Struktur gedung sahabatku sangat apik bagai dirancang oleh arsitek terkemuka, setiap sudutnya dikalkulasi dengan baik, interior gedung tertata dalam estetika yang berkelas. Setiap lantai gedung itu, memiliki cerita mimpi yang berbeda. Namun, gedung milik sahabatku tak pernah lepas dari sebuah warna cat yang ia sebut sebagai motivasi.

Nama gedung sahabatku adalah Kebahagiaan.

Sehari-hari gedung itu dipenuhi tawa dan senyum tiap orang yang berlalu-lalang di dalamnya. Tak jarang gedung itu mendapati kunjungan oleh Mimpi Yang Terkabul yang membikin gedung itu makin meriah dibuatnya.

Sahabatku selalu memberiku petuah bagaimana cara merawat gedungku, hidupku, dengan memiliki mimpi yang harus kuraih, meskipun jauhnya di ujung lautan sana, dan tetap harus ku kejar walaupun kemampuanku hanya sebatas merangkak.

Ketika ia bicara tentang pilar, ia tak tahu aku tak ingin punya gedung.

Kematian berbicara bagai gedung yang direnggut dari eksistensi. Dirubuhkan fisiknya. Dihancurkan. Namun, aku tak ingin punya gedung. Aku tak ingin ada di dalam lanskap kehidupan yang rumit ini. Skenario merawat, menjaga, dan mengasihi sebuah gedung membuatku bingung dan pusing.

Gedungku bahkan tak bisa dibilang gedung, hanya empat tembok kumuh yang lebih cocok disebut kandang. Aku tak punya pilar, hanya ada empat onggok tiang bambu yang perlahan dimakan rayap. Lantainya bukan dari marmer, tapi tanah becek yang bau ketika dicium hujan, tidak ada orang tertawa atau tersenyum di dalam gedungku, hanya ada aku dan rasa lapar yang berteriak sampai telingaku lelah.

Lantas, ketika aku terbangun dari tidurku yang tak pernah nyenyak dan disambut kegelapan, tanpa gedungku, tanpa ocehan sahabatku yang berkata sembari menutup mata dari kenyataan yang ku alami, aku bernapas lega.

Dalam incognito yang ku peroleh, aku merasa tenang. Terombang-ambing di tengah ada dan tiada. Menyatu dengan hitam, bersaru dengan putih. Aku tersenyum dan perlahan berterima kasih kepada Tuhan yang akhirnya memahami bahwa aku tak punya mimpi, selain menjadi tidak ada.

Namun, hatiku mencelos ketika Tuhan berbisik dengan lirih, bahwa aku hanya punya batas waktu hingga empat puluh delapan jam sebelum kembali pada kehidupan yang rumit.

“Tuhan,” kataku, “untuk apa aku ada, ketika orang-orang sibuk dengan gedung, sementara yang ku punya hanya seonggok bilik?”
R Nov 2019
You remind me of shades of blue.

I used to think it's the one that the sky has, but it turned out to be more of the ocean shade.

Maybe I haven't told you why it is my favorite color, now I will. It's not because I often feel blue, or I often could grasp the meaning, it's because when I long for something soothing, I only have to lay my eyes on something that is blue.

It could be the sky, the ocean, the color of my favorite book note, the shade of my blanket, or the reflection I see when I wear my favorite shirt, or anything.

Then why does it have to be the ocean, especially when drowning is one of the things which makes me tremble in fear?

You are my ocean. To you, I'm willing to drown myself in your shades of blue.

The tip of your light blue, which shows me the appearance of what's inside, luring me to dive deeper.

I meet your darker shade of blue as I begin to know the waves of your emotions, your raging passion, slowly bringing out the surprises of your enigma and lead me the way to swim in your guidance until I fall in love with how your flow fully drench my skin.

I begin to understand how beautiful you are, to the extent I'm willing to hold my breath just so I can be in your hold a little longer.

And when I'm breathlessly in love in your arms, you show me the love language through the sky, how the blue of your whole being is up there, pulling me out of from where I thought I'd die loving you. And you didn't let me to.

You are my ocean, and in every each of your shades of blue, breathlessly I fall in love.
R Sep 2019
I used to think the cause of the loss of my writing ability is because I am happy, which will be highly doubtful, or I am empty, that I don't feel anything, leaving nothing to write, leaving the words soulless.

Now it has come to a realization that the cause of it is because; I don't let myself to feel.

I buried my sadness in silence, in nonexistent boxes of shadows and slowly, painfully, I'm getting used to it. To not acknowledging my feelings, to think they're *******, that my sadness is useless, and I shouldn't feel that way.

And when it gets too overwhelming, too suffocating, I don't know where to go. I ran out of boxes, they couldn't take it anymore. I don't know where to go, and when I try to pen the sadness down, the papers sound as if they're mad at me, as if they refuse to listen. No words coming out, it's left blankly and I thought it's because words will not do justice to the feelings I endure, turns out it's because I unknowingly **** my own healing.

As I'm in the process to have it back, most of it ends to no avail. I want to write again. I want to write again, for myself, for my own sanity, for you, for the world.
R Feb 2019
How ironic is it
to believe in forever
while living in a world that suffer
R Jan 2019
Please sugget me a book.
I'm tired of reading our old conversation.
R Sep 2018
Kyra is a painter, but she's colorblind.

She makes someone else's world colorful but hers is grey.

Whenever she draws in the middle of spring afternoon, she tends to whispers to the singing bird on her shoulder.

"For whom I draw still hasn't been decided, and I wish to meet my muse soon after the season's end."

Two days after spring.

She's being asked to attend her friend's rehearsal.

A pair of her brown eyes is glued to the pianist as his melody hits her right. His fingers gracefully dance in tuts, faster than anyone's breathe, but not so fast compared to Kyra's hand sketching him.

"I find my muse." She whispers in happiness. Gaze falls to the quick sketch on her hand.

She asks her friend about his name, eyes sparkles with love, so pure, so honest.

"His name is Will. He's special like you."

Her brows furrow in confusion as she skips a heartbeat.

"Special? Like me?"

"He's a pianist but he's deaf."
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