love

Cinta, English, Puisi

The Muse of Catalonia

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It is love at first sight,
that glimpses of you,
that enables every man
to create and play
God.

Beauty is in the eyes
of the beholder,
And so does love,
a blooming imagination
of one’s perception.

So loving each other is
an illusion we tell ourselves
that we see, feel, and want
the same thing but
truly we don’t.

We are playing a game,
of guessing and if only
we play it objectively
then love fails.

For it is the trick and treat,
the horror of uncertainty,
the faith of the unrequited,
that gives meaning to our feelings.

Thus love made a fool of us all,
in daydreams and ecstasy,
and when we know the truth that
we love not the person
but only the persona
we learn
Melancholy.

And thus, the energy burns,
we can put it in urns,
or start a war in turns,
or let emotion adjourn
so we can return
to be reborn.

Devotion is love at first sight,
first sight is when you realize
there is a sight you cannot compartmentalize
so you got to write, draw, record, play, sing, dance…

Conception is a blessing,
from a sight that is nesting,
From the first time you see,
hear, and yearn to earn
the impossible love
impregnate your mind,
with Platonic perception
of perfection.

I love you,
and it is my business only,
If you love me,
it is your business.

And if we are to join
the holy sacrament,
We can give our body
But we will mind
our own soul.

That is how all great art was started.

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Kontributor, Prosa

Something in the Last

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Every Saturday, Anton went to the edge of the lake, where he last spoke with Natasha, his lover. Anton actually didn’t like being in the lake, he despised nature. He leaned against an old oak tree with many scratches on its trunk. Upon that tree, of which invisible remembrances were pinned least to his mind, Anton was taken back to the day, where they last spoke. That afternoon, he had turned down her invitation to go for a hike to the mountains — together. Like they always used to, except that he hated it — nature. Why go to a place where you were never meant to be? Little did he know, this very question, was the reason why he had found himself returning to this very tree.

Three years had passed since the news of Natasha’s disappearance reached Anton’s ears. The guilt and pain in Anton’s heart did not recover, in fact, it got worse. Anton always thought, that maybe it was because he hated nature, that nature responded so cruelly to him. Took his lover. Took his future wife.

But no other year, no other Saturday.

That afternoon, Anton decided to face the very thing he hated. And so he looked upon the lake and saw his reflection atop the cliff where the oak tree sat. A minute’s contemplation passed, yet Natasha was nowhere to be found. Perhaps, thought Anton, if I brave these cliffs, if I brave nature, I might see her again. And so he did. And hoped to see Natasha again. Somewhere, in a better place than nature.

Cinta, Eksistensialisme, English, Puisi

8

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We are homeless
wandering with our backpack
from one place to another

We went to different direction,
we experience and experiment
with life and people and nature
and folklore and fairytales
and spirits and magical things

Searching for rituals, to be transcended
searching for each other, to be ascended

Sometimes we got really tired
and we rest our head in a place
just to be woken up by the reality
that the place is not ours

Home is nowhere to be found

*

Today we found each other in the intersection of 8
8 is what separate us from each other
8 is the infinite meeting point of two halves
8 is where we apart, and where we shall meet

again and again and again.

*

She said, “You have anchored yourself to a home. I am homeless.”

He said, “I’m not anchored, I am having a vessel.”

She said, “You anchored yourself to that vessel. It’s your home.”

He said nothing. She always wins an argument, she’s that half that wins.

8 is a loop. Infinity loop, with infinite possibilities.

Its the most magical number, the number of reincarnation
of complexity, the ultimate uroboros

“I am building a home,” he wished he said this to her, “but its not mine.”
“it belongs to people who love me. But mine, I have no idea where. Until today.”

He found her as a temple of worship, where his lost soul subside
in her melancholy, anxiety, and wisdom

She found him an idea of a man, that shouldn’t be exist
in this world of cruelty and egos.

He found his true home in 8
she, however, still wanders,
but as constellations change for billions of years
8 will still be a number of infinity,
and when the two halves meet again
one will stay, the other will wander.

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English, Memoir, Racauan

Guilt

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You don’t deserve it

But you can try to earn it

The Gary, Final Space

So many bad things I’ve done. Burning bridges, taking for granted the love, the trust. I cheated, I lied, I hide, I told incredible stories that probably didn’t happened–I don’t know I was nuts.

The guilt haunts me in every breath that I took, and it doesn’t make me good. I m guilty as charged and I have admitted it. I have been punished by losing the things I love, people I care about, a home, sanity, and money.

And yet still I get happiness. And this happiness is my ultimate crime because I made people love me. I don’t deserve this love, this life. After all that I’ve done. But I’ve got the words to describe it now. Now that I am blessed with unbearable lightness of being, I’ve got to earn what has been given. That privilege should be a debt that can only be paid forward.

With every evaluated sin, wisdom should come forth. And wisdom is nothing but action to earn what has been given.

Blessed thy soul, you who have passed by and who will come forth. I cannot save you but I will endure you if I can.

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