Pusing, di Satu Tempat



Sudah pukul tiga suku, pagi,
mentari belum naik lagi,
ibu, masih menari dalam mimpi
tentang syurga, tentang hati,
tentang ayah yang berdondang cinta
entah ke mana, entah di mana.

Nostalgia


Nostalgia is a funny word,
an ugly word even, the kind
of ugly you don’t notice right
away - only in small, recurring
doses - the kind that gets
harder to look at day
by day.

I’m not one for regrets but
if I was, I’d regret all the times
I’ve chosen memory over change.

#GOALS


It was my mistake,

I thought that if we looked
like #goals and talked
like #goals, that it would
negate how it felt on the
inside;

looking out from the inside
I see all these hungry faces
and I want to scream - I’M
HUNGRY TOO - but no one ever
hears me over the double taps
on our new desperate plea - OH
PLEASE VALIDATE ME - I mean,
how can I tell we’re meant to be if
my Instagram doesn’t notify me?

Girls Hate Other Girls

It’s a fact. Girls hate other girls. We hate girls who are more confident than us. We hate girls who threaten us. We hate girls who don’t give a fuck about us. We hate girls we don’t understand. It’s basic human instinct to be suspicious of things that are foreign to us, things that we don’t quite comprehend. It’s self-preservation at its least necessary. But our lack of empathy for our own kind can be boiled down to our lack of acceptance of ourselves.


But instead of acknowledging our own personal issues, we create pseudo-feminism. We preach ‘keeping it real’ while getting self-gratification from pointing out which of our friends photoshop their asses on Instagram because it’s easier to look at a screen than in a mirror. We call out ‘loyalty’ when our friends date our exes; despite there being future happiness for the two of them, despite knowing full well that things didn’t work out with us either way. We claim ‘class’ as we trash talk the girl who wears too short of skirts or dated one too many boys because it’s easier to criticize someone else’s way of life than to admit that we are not all that happy with our own. We make ‘women supporting other women’ into our brand; denouncing all haters and shade throwers while having no qualms about throwing the shade right back whenever it suits us because it’s not really about anti-hate, it’s about anti-anyone-who-notices-my-weaknesses.

Hikayat Mustafi dan Kacang Ajaib

Mustafa terkenal di kampungnya sebagai seorang pemalas. Kerjanya hari-hari hanya tidur di atas bukit sehingga petang. Telinganya juga sudah lali dengan cemuhan orang kampung yang saban hari tidak henti-henti. Begitu juga dengan kedua ibu bapanya, setiap hari memaksa dia untuk mencari pekerjaan supaya dia beroleh jodoh dan meninggalkan rumah. Namun, Mustafa hanya memekakkan telinga sambil tersenyum.

Satu tentang Mustafa yang ramai tidak tahu, ketika kecilnya, dia berjumpa dengan seekor bidadari ketika mengejar layang-layang di atas bukit. Bidadari itu cantiknya seperti musim bunga dan harumnya seperti keseluruhan bunga di dunia dikumpulkan menjadi satu.

“Kelak nanti engkau dewasa, aku akan menjadi isterimu, dan kita berdua akan hidup di atas awan, bermandikan air hujan yang turun dari pelangi. Engkau binalah tangga untuk ke awan agar aku tahu kesungguhan engkau wahai bakal suamiku.”


Demikianlah janji sang bidadari untuk Mustafa. Sejak dari hari itu, hidupnya hanya berfikir tentang bagaimana dia harus membina tangga untuk mencapai awan. Sebab itulah dia menghabiskan hari-harinya hanya di atas bukit.

Nyawa


Seorang jutawan sedang membaca surat khabar di suatu pagi. Hatinya tersentuh dengan keadaan dunia yang sangat nazak. Banyak kemiskinan berlaku di sekelilingnya sedang dia hidup senang lenang dan kaya raya.

“Aku banyak wang, aku akan bantu mereka semua.”

Jadi, tanpa berlengah, dia dermakan keseluruhan wang yang dia ada.

Dalam kegembiraan mereka yang memerlukan, dia ditinggalkan keluarga, hilang kedudukan, menjadi miskin dan tinggal sendirian di apartmen usang sambil bekerja sebagai tukang sapu.

Myth

There once was a girl. Or at least, she started out as girl. People didn’t really see her that way. Then again, people never really seemed to see her at all. I mean, they looked at her. They definitely looked. But no one ever saw. They only saw what they wanted to see, what they were comfortable with, what they could easily consume.


At school, they made her the siren--most enchanting from a distance but come any closer and she’d lure you to your death; so no one ever dared to get too close. To some, she was a sphinx; full of riddles and nearly impossible to get through to. They thought they were the answer; they didn’t realize that there wasn’t any. Sometimes, they made her out to be a mermaid of some kind. As the legend went, she would make promises with no legs and would swim away as soon as tides got a little rough. When they couldn’t quite put a name to what she was, they would just give her any name they saw fit.

Escape


I’ve devoted years to the fine art
of escape; I am a masterclass in
finding exits in unfamiliar places:
I’ve been known to escape the
bottom of any pill bottle and
the feet of any stranger’s bed,
I’ve broken out in between cracks
of used pipes and even from under
rocks that have sunk bottom,