Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Take For Granted

As a college student, we were taught that reckless assumption is the beginning of the doom. It leads us to a false direction, wrong conclusion. But somehow, half of people in the world have a tendency to assume anything. They assume that every parents love their children. They assume that snakes bite. They assume that the sky won’t fall out in a second. But half others know better. Some parents abandon their heir. Some snakes only hiss. And God Knows when the sky collapse. The truth is overlooked by the assumption. Because the perk of an assumption is…, we feel safe and secure…. While consequently, the trouble is terribly shocking when the assumption fails us.


Crossing the street is the first thing every boyscout learned, quoting Elmo from the sesame street. To help an elder treading the zebra cross is a great achievement. And I WAS a boyscout, so to speak. At least for 4 months, until my arms sore from flagging semaphore (meh). But I’ve learned what Elmo learned. To see your right and your left before crossing the street and not to rush walking. Back then, I was really cautious whenever I have to go to the “street”. But not anymore after junior high school. Crossing the street is an easy thing. It’s like folding your shoe laces, or like dribbling the basket ball, or like peeking at someone’s closet. I mean, it’s not like we’re facing a death sentence. It’s a piece of cake. But that is when I’m totally wrong…

I realized it during the first month of driving my own car. First, I cannot say I’m a good driver that time (well, I jumped out the seat everytime there’s a honk behind). Second, I believe in “learning by doing” thing which obviously force me to take the car to every dangerous area that I think I should explore. Idiot indeed, since it means the risk of bumping to another car or even a human being is more than fifty percent. Then it came to my mind like a flood. How if I’m in the other side? I mean, how if I’m the one who presumably crossing the street as a casual routine activity and believe that every car has a pair of eye behind the steering wheel, actually found that the cars passing in front of my eyes are driven by irresponsible or incapable driver? The chance is high since we know how this country runs the driving licence test. I took everything for granted. I assume everyone get their driving license legally. I assume everyone is not medicated or under some drugs. I assume everyone is an expert driver. So, yes, I got the consequences. The victim is my teeth, my lips, my chin, my forearm, and some bruised skin. Heading right to the asphalts.


It’s good to know that you have people to confide to. People who always be there when everybody else seems hard to even open their ears. Lately, I’m running out of those people.
“Don't it always seem to go…That you don't know what you got till it's gone”, Counting Crows said while riding their big yellow taxi. I’m two hundred percent agree with them.

One time before the dawn, after some sleepless night, I try to contact some of my bestfriends. The first call is picked-up. We swapped hi and greet. I’m a bit feel guilty since I know the first one I call is not a morning person. But still, I relieved what I had on my head. It’s been a bless. Then to cover up my guiltiness, I apologized for waking him up, and ask if it’s ok if I call again at that wee hour next time. Blatantly he chuckle and said, “Man, I’m getting married next month, remember?” Then I thanked him. Though I know it’s somekind of joke, I took it as a no. I shouldn’t have done it at the first place. It’s kinda rude and selfish. I took him for granted. That he will always available when I’m in need. So I never call anybody more than 23 hundred since then.


I’m a fashionably late person. Well, not really fashionable…, but truly late, I admit. However I set my watch one hour ahead, it’s not making me a punctual man. And there are sooo many victims of my bad habit. My family, my friends, even my co-workers.

There was a meeting appointment which I grade myself as a not-really-important person. I think my other co-workers have almost the same information with what I have to deal with some issue. So consciously I put myself in another errand which I think would be better if I finish it earlier and set a standby mode. Not more than fifteen minutes, someone called me. His tone is furious. He was asking where I was and when I would have decency and a little bit responsibility to show my face in the meeting, since everybody wait for me before starting the meeting.

Surprised by the words in the phone, I realized that not only unprofessional, but I also took them for granted. That the issue would be thorough although one or two members are not present. It makes me remember a tale. About a village who try to make the very fine wine. The leader ordered all the villagers to donate one drop of their own wine in a jug. There’s someone who try to think “smart”. If only he drop water instead of wine, it wouldn’t really affect the total taste. But a half of the villagers assume the same. Then we know how a supposed-to-be-very-fine-wine turn out to be the most insipid wine ever known.


The constant. That is what keeps us sane in the world. Because everything is change. Nothing in the world but variable. Our life is ups and downs. Back and forth. People come and go. Science always has exemption. I can relate so much with Desmond Hume. With all the insanity in the world…, what we need is something stable. Something to hold on. Something that will always be there. Exist. Alive. Constant.

That is when we realize that the only constant is not a wealth, not a job, not a status, not a family, not a parent, not a friend, not also a lover. The only constant is GOD. Yet, most of the time we take HIM for granted. Maybe because we know that HE WILL ALWAYS LISTEN. That HE WILL ALWAYS PROTECT us. What we often forget is that we HAVE TO ASK first before. But, no. We forget. We cheat. We run from HIM. Therefore…, we lose our CONSTANT…, and prepare to be insane.

Monday, October 12, 2009

No body wants to look weak. We dress up in any cloth which shows our strength, not our personality. We respond to challenges. Defeat, is absolutely not an option. We try our best not to limp in the way. We don’t flinch. We don’t give up. We get a bad exam grade, we move on. Our parents divorce, we move on. We snort and cramp, we move on. Our brother dies, we move on. We get heartache, we move on. We screw up in a job, we move on.

To show that we are strong, we live every second in consequences. No matter hard it is. We’re not screaming pain. We’re not crying. At least in public. But it’s hard to fake the face. And unfortunately, people read faces. And yet, we never succeed to build a perfect wall. So people ask. And everytime they ask, “are you okay?”, we always have the answer: “I am fine”.

Every tribulation and ordeal leaves a scar. No matter how tough we are. They are written in stitch, in gloomy face, in empty eyes, in heavy voice. They follow us everywhere. They change our outlook. They mess-up our life. And we keep saying, “I am fine!”

I. am. fine.
I. am. fine.
I. am. fine.

We keep saying those words. We need to say those words. It turns-out as a mantra to keep us survive. Really hopeful that the spell won’t broken, especially when the memory of pain come in wave.

At a certain point, we really wish there is someone who can look through the deep. Someone who understand the pain beneath. And ease it in a certain way. They don’t have to be human with telepathy skill. What we need is someone who just simply cares and fights a bit more to interpret what lies behind those words. As a matter of fact, when we said “I am fine” with all the dark-baggage in the face or in the tone…, people actually know. They know that we are not fine. At all. But only the close one who moves ahead by deflecting our words and say, “No, you are not fine.” Too bad, among them also rare who fight so hard, persistently, to get the reason why we’re not actually fine. They leave under so many excuses. Maybe they think it’s not appropriate to mess up with other people business. Or maybe what we need only space and time, not an annoyance. But how if they are our closest people? Our mom, our brother, our spouse, or even our bestfriend? Can we still say that they have to take care their own business?

In order to keep our sane, we don’t look again to the pain, the blood, and the fear. At the end, we just have to suck it up. And keep saying, “I am fine”. Go through with it. Move on. But, as Alex said, maybe that’s the point. All the pain, and the fear, and the crap. Maybe going through all that is what keeps us moving forward. It what pushes us. Maybe we have to get a little messed-up. Before we can step up.

Sleeping in your backyard
I'm the comeback kid
"You're hired"
And I will play for you this rare old jukebox tune
That I knew well

I hope it goes as follows
And I hope it's all so special

Look what the day brought 'round
Drunkards, vagabonds, and clowns

He gave his all, there's nothing left
King of Sound, get some rest
And now there's room for happiness here

And he laughs beneath his crooked crown
Wears of will on his furrowed brow

And he won't ask for nothing now
That's what the people say

And he laughs beneath his crooked crown
Wears of will on his furrowed brow
And he won't ask for nothing now

Saw the lines upon his face
The journey of his life was traced
And he won't come back to this place
That's what the people say

[THE MOSTAR DIVING CLUB - Vagabonds And Clown]

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

How are you today, Mr.Cloud?

Thunderstorms. Lately, among all nature has provided, I could relate most with thunderstorms. They were ominous, dark, and threatening like my mood when I was pissed. Then the rain came, heavy pourdown like the tears. The lightning resembled my thoughts –- scattered…, sharp…, painful…! The thunder was the voice in my conscious that berated myself as being so much weak. It is booming…, loud…, and fury….

Before today…, it was all an overcast days. Gray and grim. It seems everyday ended drag and dark. The shadows were deeper and the sun had changed its angle. And I folded up like origami after several folding failure.

Maybe it’s September. Or maybe it’s because Ramadhan spirit who bring so much consciousness about wrong and right, which leads me being so depressed as the realization comes in mind about me being in almost always at the wrong side. Or maybe it’s the hormone of “twenty-ager”. Or maybe it’s the insecurity of life. Or maybe it’s just me who’s being such a melancholic-a$s.

Day by day move on slow motion. Dream-like quality. Blur, yet tauntingly influential. Sometimes I wonder…, where am I who usually grinned like a Jack o’Lantern? And when did I stop being a buoyant and jumpy Tigger? And frankly speaking, I’m fed up about the innocent Pooh and the spoiled Piglet. Hell, I’m howling at the damning moon like the Lycans.

It was about the sinner guilt that kept you up at until three am, when you couldn't breathe from the bigness of it. It was about the silent cry that wet your bed and pillows, when no man able to dry them up. It was about the loss of vision of yourself in a year ahead. Clearly the thunderstorms are also messing my mind.

And than one day I heard someone was screaming, and not soon after, I realized it was myself.


Wake Up, Mr.Cloud!

Oh, am I still alive? My eyes catch a slight of morning light from the window blinds. I still lay there in my bed. Open star position formed by both my arms and legs. Then I look to the ceiling. No lamps on. But funny, the room feels bright. And I feel my whole body so light. No anxiousness. No worries. No pain. It’s not numbness. It’s calmness. I feel relieved. Something different today. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s October. Or maybe the serotonin has kicked-in. Or maybe I’m just a blissful moron.

How Are You Today, Mr.Cloud?

I don’t answer it. I just smile.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Tabula Rasa

KATE: Are you okay?
JACK: [Blood spits, pants] Yeah.
KATE: [Sighs] You know, before we were caught... [panting] you said that we needed to put things back the way they were supposed to be. What did you mean by that?
JACK: If we can do what Faraday said... [sniffs] our plane never crashes... Flight 815 lands in Los Angeles. And everyone we lost since we got here... [chuckles] they'd all be alive.
KATE: And what about us? We just... go on living our life because we've never met?
JACK: All the misery that we've been through... we'd just wipe it clean. Never happened.
KATE: It was not all misery.
JACK: [Sighs] Enough of it was.

[LOST, 5.15 – Follow The Leader]


A clean slate. A blank paper. A start-over. An innocent baby. Those ideas are reeling around every incoming Ramadhan and Syawal. It feels like a routine to have people ask for apology from each-other. A stylish mechanism to redeem every bad-deed in the past. A suggestive system to let us off the hook for every mistake we had. Rebirth. And then we act like nothing has happened. All errors are forgiven. All misconducts are pardonable. A new page is turned. But deep down we knew, not all are forgotten.

We will never be a clean slate. The paper has already drawn by multiple-colors. And we’re live long enough to be called as a baby. Not when the memory of the past mistakes is still written in our minds. Not when all the failures, all the lies, all the mockery, all the betrayal, all the laziness, all the snoozes, and all the wickedness still linger now. Not when we cannot forgive ourselves. Tabula rasa is an impossibility.

On a regretful situation, we always tell ourselves, “IF ONLY I can turn back the time…, I will do different”. But it’s a trick that everyone knows never be happened. Whatever happened, happened! What’s done is done! We live in consequences now.

For some people, there is a period of time when the situation is terribly hard and the best way to avoid the pain is trying to forget it all. The memories, the past. Traumatized people have a repression mechanism not to remember those things. They are unable to remember anything for those periods of time. And the pain is gone. The burden is lifted. And they becomes an empty box again. Hollowed.

I have this portable hard disk. Owned for almost three years. It is a place I put all my project networks, office documents, and abundant of personal files. Somehow at one time, the hard disk is undetected. Zero. Nein. Blank! I did everything I can to retrieve all the files..., since two months ago. And none of them I got back. But the strangest thing is, I feel relieved. The length of three years postponed jobs is automatically closed. The shattered memoir on pictures and words are dismissed. And I can be a new person with a brand new hard disk to store a new life, a new job, and a new memories…, detached from haunted past. But the feeling is only temporary. The next thing I knew is... that I'm LOST. As if I jumped from three years ago, not doing anything, not giving anything, accept nothing! No evidence of every activity in last three years.

And that is how we should have figured. That being a clean slate doesn’t mean we have to forget everything. Because life is like piano. Among all the black tabs, there are still so much white tabs. Among bad people we had, there are good people come. Among bad experience we got, there are good moments we achieved. Not all were misery, as Kate said. Yes, we’re gonna experience the pitfall, the pain, and the loss. And yes, sometimes it’s hard to endure and we prefer not to remember it. But we are a learning creature. An old man is not a wise man if he’s not taking any lesson from his life. Starting-over does not mean we have to start at kilometer zero. It means we welcome every incoming days with a new mind. That today should be better than yesterday, and tomorrow should be better than the present.

A clean slate. A blank paper. A start-over. Tabula Rasa. Those ideas are reeling around every incoming Ramadhan and Syawal. Although we know that some of mistakes are never be forgotten…, still, we ask for forgiveness. To cut the old memories is not an option. Losing the memories is only for the crazy person. Growing pains. It defines us. It’s sharpening us. Something we need to face a greater challenge in the future.


SAYID: So you're telling me you're going to erase the last three years of our lives?
JACK: We can change things, Sayid.
SAYID: I don't know if you're aware of this, but I've already changed things. I killed Benjamin Linus, and we're all still here.
KATE: It's because you didn't kill him. Sawyer and me took him to the Others so that they could save him.
SAYID: [Solemnly] Why did you do that?
KATE: Why did I do that? Since when did shooting kids and blowing up hydrogen bombs become okay?
JACK: The three of us disappeared off that plane and ended up here, ended up now, because this is our chance to change things.
KATE: And if you're wrong, then everyone on the Island dies. Do you understand that?
JACK: I'm not wrong, Kate. This is it. This is why we're here. [Sighs] This is our destiny.
KATE: Do you know who you sound like? Because he was crazy, too, Jack. You said so yourself.
JACK: Well, maybe I was wrong.
KATE: No, you were right. I'm going back to find the rest of our people, because if I can't stop you, then maybe they can.

[LOST, 5.15 – Follow The Leader]

Friday, August 14, 2009

To Change a Blood Type…

In the try-out to win competition of market share, change is inevitable. New products are created, activation techniques are updated, level of efficiency is increased. Innovation is everything. Nothing remains the same for long. We either adapt to change…, or we get left behind. But the ugly truth always the same…, that “change” is the most difficult thing to do. Especially if we talk about a character change, which involves a lot of mind-shifting and heart-struglling. It seems as impossible as changing our blood type. Until yesterday…

At high-school, we learned that a blood type is a blood classification based on the presence (or absence) of inherited antigenic substances in the red blood cells. Type-A is for those who have A antigen, Type-B is for those who have B antigen, Type-AB for those who have both, and Type-O for those who doesn’t have both. If a Type-A is exposed to another blood, the immune system will produce antibody B that can specifically bind to that particular blood type antigen. So, if the other blood is a Type-B or Type-AB who have B antigen, then it will bind and lead to destruction of the cells.

As we know, blood types are inherited and represent contributions from both parents. Once you are a Type-A, you’ll always be a Type-A. Well…, theoretically. Because after I’ve had a test during blood donor yesterday, I’m really wondering now. My father is an A type, while my mother is an AB type, so the possibilities are I’ll be an A type, B type, or an AB type. Type-O is impossible. And most of previous tests in the past have shown that I’m an A-type. But somehow yesterday result gave me a shock. I’m a Type-O. Even after I asked for the second test. There’s no agglomeration or any cell destructed in the test-plate. And then I recall that in junior high-school, I was claimed to have Type-O also but I assumed it’s just a wrong test. But it intrigues me right now. Has my blood type changed? Because the possibility that I’m an adopted-kid is out of the table. I know my history. I have checked it thoroughly when I felt as a misfit in the family. But how can the law of genetics not applied to me?

A friend of mine, weeks ago, tell me to change my behavior. He asked me to be more… socializing…! Cut all the crap about solitary. Becoming a sociopath is not a good way in life. Stop for being so complicated and stubborn!

I argued. Because I’m not hurting anyone. And without “socializing”, I have so much way to learn and contribute. Not that I don’t care for people. It’s definitely the opposite. I care about them by spare everyone an effort to understand and pretend to be nice to some guy who looks abnormal among them. I don’t need everyone to praise me by doing every narcistic and exhibitionist acts people usually does. And change… I don’t like it. I resist it. People can accept me as I am or move away.

Then today, I realized. Even a blood-type is changed. And without my consciousness…, I AM changed…! I was a Type-A who is demanding, perfectionist, stubborn, uptight, and has a narrow range of tolerance has gradually become a Type-O who is less cloudy, more optimist, brave, and has a wide range of tolerance and empathy towards people’s mistakes, beliefs, and perceptions.

We don’t like it.
We fear it.
We resist it.
But we can’t stop it from coming.
We either adapt to change…, or we get left behind.
It hurts to grow. Anybody who tells you it doesn’t is lying.
But, still, we need to change… however great the pain comes along…

Monday, August 10, 2009

Doesn’t Have To Be Anna Frank To Be Understood

A similar film-genre as Dangerous Minds (1994) or Freedom Writers (2007), Entre Les Murs (In English: “The Class”, although it’s literally means “Between the Walls”, as if the “class" is equal with “walls” –nice catch anyway-) brought in French and deliver the same topic: difficult-teenagers-and-multi-racial-students lead by a great teacher in some horrific environment. But, all-in-all, that is the only similarity I found.

Unlike the first two films, “Entre Les Murs” doesn’t end up changing a class that previously can’t sit together in the same room to a group of individuals who care into themselves and all their friends. No, no. It ends in a bittersweet situation. Almost unsolved situation (as in “Where God Left His Shoes” situation). It’s just like a documentary about a (more-intense) racially diverse class (France, Chinese, Arabs, and Africans) hooked-up by a French teacher who is day by day really struggle to give sense into his students mind. He’s a kind of accommodative person who always tries to cater every student’s opinion although he knew that they need a special separate attention and also a different way of teaching.

If you have seen “Gilmore Girls” series (yes, I admit that I watched it -great writings i may say-), you’ll find a very fast pace of dialogue. Not only fast, but also witty and intriguing. It’s challenging for the actor and also for the audience, because the power of the film is ON the dialogue. That is why “reading the transcript” has so much amusement as “watching the film” itself. In Entre Les Murs, the film is purposely made in an “audience-eye view”, my term to say that the camera is moving right and left, wobble a bit, in order to catch up “who’s talking now”, which made the film looks pretty genuine.

As a French teacher, Francois Marin, the main cast, aim is to make every individual in his class can communicate well. Maybe that's why the film itself made in a fast-pace dialogue. Somehow he (and the writer) realized that “communication” is the basic skill for people to understand each other, especially among smart Chinese student who feel so intimidated and ashamed with his friend’s behavior, African Moslem students who have their own gang, Arabian boy who hesitate to open up his mind due to racial issue, and black kid from Carribbean who thinks France is also his country.

Therefore, the teacher, Francois Marin, has instructed his pupils to make some writing about self-portray. The aim is subtle. To make every student understand about other different kind of people. Deeper down, that way, everyone can express what they felt and be understood by others. It’s a thing that make someone feel worth and an antidote for socio-pathology. Hopefully, at the end of the day, they can build the spirit of tolerance and understanding among each other. In a big picture, this class is also a “prototype” of France society which is racially diverse, religiously tolerant and connected only by the French language. Salute!


Mr. Francois Marin: I learn about Anne Frank… because she talks about herself and so I get to know her. When I ask you to write your own self-portraits, I’ll expect the same. In other words, to learn things through your feelings. You can talk about facts. That will allow me to know you better. Yes, lucie…

Lucie: What we write won’t be as gripping as what Anna Frank wrote. Our lives aren’t as gripping as her.

Mr. Francois Marin: All right. Juliet.

Juliet : Someone aged 70 could talk about their life, but we have nothing to tell at 13.

Mr. Francois Marin: At 15, 14, or even 13, you’ve had experiences.

Juliet: Less than someone aged 70. They’ve lived a lot more.

Mr. Francois Marin: Ok.

Juliet: They have seen “life”.

Mr. Francois Marin: It’s funny. You don’t think your lives are interesting?

Juliet: We just come to school, go home, eat, and sleep.

Mr. Francois Marin: Okay, so you come to school, eat, sleep. Fine! The bare facts of your life are dull. But what you feel is interesting…!

Juliet: My Feeling? That’s my business.

Mr. Francois Marin: Maybe, but I’m interested.

Juliet: That’s different.

Mr. Francois Marin: Why is it different?

Juliet: Because you are a teacher.

Mr. Francois Marin: It’s not the teacher talking.

Juliet: It’s your job.

Mr. Francois Marin: It’s me being the human being.

Juliet: I think you’re only saying that to get us to talk and stuff, but it’s not true.
Mr. Francois Marin: It isn’t? What isn’t true?

Juliet: The fact that you’re interested in knowing all that.

Mr. Francois Marin: So I’m not interested at all and I’m pushing at this to convince you it’s interesting?

Juliet: Not as much as you say.

Mr. Francois Marin: Maybe I’m exaggerating a little. It’s only natural since you don’t agree with me. But deep down, I’m totally sincere. Why is it such a problem for you to talk about your life?

Boubacar: Well, there’s stuff…. There’s private stuff.

Mr. Francois Marin: Of course. What could be hard to say about your private life?

Burak: We may be ashamed to say certain things.

Mr. Francois Marin: Okay, it has to do with shame. Things you find it hard to say and even harder to write. So tell me, in your life, what were you ashamed?

Boubacar: You can be ashamed of a pal’s mom.

Mr. Francois Marin: Why? Because you find her ugly?

Boubacar: No, for instance, Rabah’s mom, she offers me lunch but I refused, because I was ashamed.

Mr. Francois Marin: Ashamed to eat with her?

Boubacar: Yes.

Mr. Francois Marin: Because she’s beneath you?

Boubacar: No.

Mr. Francois Marin: I don’t understand. Tell me why…

Boubacar: I’m ashamed to eat with her…, because I respect her.

Mr. Francois Marin: You never eat with people you respect?

Boubacar: I mean, she’s not my girlfriend.

Mr. Francois Marin: You can only eat with a girlfriend?

Boubacar: Achh…!

Mr. Francois Marin: Tell me why. I’m interested.

Boubacar: I cant explain it. In any case, I’m ashamed I always hang out with Rabah, so I respect his mom. I don’t eat in front of her.

Mr. Francois Marin: [to the class] So if Boubacar eats in front of us, he doesn’t respect us.

Boubacar: No, it’s not that. You can’t understand!

Mr. Francois Marin: I’m not smart enough?

Boubacar: You just can’t understand.

Mr. Francois Marin: Yes, Rabah?

Rabah: I was at the party with the snobs.

Mr. Francois Marin: Snobs?

Rabah: Yeah, like you.

Mr. Francois Marin: What is a snob?

Rabah: Someone who stinks of cheese.

Mr. Francois Marin: So the people at the party stank of cheese?

Rabah: They were all in suits and ties. I was in my baggies and got these weird looks.

Mr. Francois Marin: You were ashamed?

Rabah: Yeah. Because of the looks.

Mr. Francois Marin: They were embarrassed because of you and you felt the same.

Rabah: They weren’t embarrassed. They looked at me like I was an Alien.

Boubacar: You ARE an Alien.

Rabah: Shut up! In their eyes, they’re questioning, “Why is that arab here?”

Mr. Francois Marin: Ok, so it was a race thing.

Rabah: I don’t know. But the snacks were bacon flavored.

Mr. Francois Marin: So?

Rabah: So I abstained.

Mr. Francois Marin: Right, bacon, ham, ok. Sorry, I get it.

[Bell’s ring]

Mr. Francois Marin: I think that covers them all. You have all you need to figure it out. Take out your exercise books. Note the following exercise for next Thursday. It’s very simple, write your self-portrait. A self-portrait isn’t an autobiography. I don’t want your life story. Describe your self and your personality. Describe your feeling. So everyone can understand.

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

In Search of Sanctuary...


Cubicle. Sometimes four times five. Sometimes two times three. Even one times two meters. The length and the width of a room where I supposed to meet you. Are you even fit in those narrow places???

Flavours. Would you tell me the flavour of heaven? Is it clement like a scent of grass? Or strong like a rose? Or even arousal as pheromone? Definitely not stink like a piss. A common odour I used to find in a place I supposed to meet you. Are you even willing to be there???

It’s usually a quickie pray along the workday. A left-over time among business and errands. Sometimes corrupted by over-hour meeting or even working-lunch. I wonder if I still deserved to meet you in this kind of situation…. While in the dawn…, I’m always occupied with my dream. A second life which stopped abruptly in empty space of my heart.

At the end of the week, I meet you in the basement of a mall, in the change-room of a sport center, in the dark room behind a movie theatre, in a kitchen of a restaurant, or in the waiting room before boarding at an airport. All those tiny rooms which are intended for people who might remember to pray. It’s just an excuse to call those rooms as “decent”. Sometimes, situation forced me to greet you in the bus, on the train, or inside an airplane. Where I can’t make my face steady to one direction and I cant even have a clean water before say hi to you.


I know. It’s OK. There’s no impossible word in your dictionary. Your authority is all over the space and time. But if there’re people who pray in a decent masjid, and people who pray in whatever place as is it…, I bet you would choose the first group. And I WANT to be in the group you chose. A group who meet you in the best cloth they have…, in the great effort to wake up before the sun rise and walk far to the clean-and-smells-good-places where holy words recited.

Maybe, I still feel alone there. Although people looks friendly and all, but I can say that they cannot see something inside me. But, it’s enough. Because there’s a certainty that you are there. Seeth me. Listeneth me. Understandeth me. So I beg to you to give me a courage and persistence to always spare some time to go to those places, even at the most impossible time. I cry a lot there…, but my soul is calm. Indescribably calm.


Aren’t You?