Oh God, Why Am I Here?

I’m sorry if I seem uninterested
Or I’m not listenin’ or I’m indifferent
Truly, I ain’t got no business here

Alessia Cara –  Here

My life’s lately is a rip-off of Alessia Cara’s Here. I can’t do anything about it, but to just let it ram my thin wall of patience. She’s singing, muting the noise, asking me question I can’t answer yet.

You reached a certain age, you lose your ability to change. It’s like the natural law bang the gavel and verdict that this is who you are. You try to do good, to be good, to walk the straight on the line, to not stray.

While it is waiting for you, just around the corner, peeking and timing the right moment to slip right back in you. In this incredulous time, incredulous city, in this strangers’ land, what can you do but wonder?

Peculiar is not a good look and you gotta fit in. In this incredulous time, in this incredulous city, “stick to what you know” may not be the best advice when all you know is suspicion. You try, and you try the damnedest to control.

But here I am, flirting with death all over again while trying to keep it in, keep it in check, keep my cool. On days like this, I pray for rains and thunders, so I could just stay at my room wrapped in blanket and just listen to sad songs.

 

All Good Things Must Come to an End

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.

Now is the season of my ennui.

The passage from Charles Dickens’ A Tales of Two City kept playing in my head today at work. Maybe because I was bored. Maybe because I was lonely. Maybe because I was inspired. Or maybe because I felt more like it was the winter of despair than it was spring of hope.

The chatters were lively sparks, not the melodious tones of Bandung. It feels like a lifetime ago since I felt evening breeze of familiarity. Here everything is heat and fire and I’m slowly melting into nothing. The hiss of air conditioner in my room is keeping me from sleep and the cold is artificial like everything else here.

The spaces are between two extremities, and navigating through this dual condition is kind of fun, if not reflective. Plus, I’m in withdrawal from a drug I may will never taste. I can’t hear the bang, but the fireworks are already faded. The crash is not yet exploded, but the ashes are already there.

I have to make a peace that for now on, my life is anti climaxing. Everything’s familiar and strange at the same time. The roads ahead are edges of abyss, waiting for me to fall into ennui. Adulthood is when craziness dies and I can feel my self become grey.

My skins are crawling, my core is trembling, and alas,

all good things must come to an end.

ASMR: Faceless Nameless Sexy Bastard

Nothing can happen to you when I’m around.

Do you know how weird it is, falling asleep to a stranger sound rambling about northern lights and how you both should adopt kids and move to country side? Do you know how weird you feel when you feel happy this faceless voice is calling you babe and asking you how did you do today and telling you that he fantasizes you naked all day then offering you a striptease before bed? That shit is beyond weird. But I love it.

4 letters, ASMR. For you who are not familiar with ASMR, it stands for Autonomous Sensory who gives a fuck what it stands for. It’s this kind of whisper and relaxing sounds, that could give you tingles. It’s really good for relaxation. If you type ASMR to Youtube, you’ll hit many scratching and other pleasing sound ASMR video. It’s very legit and could help you relax or sleep.

But if you know me, that kind of ASMR wouldn’t suffice. So I browsed and did a little bit of research, then I “stumbled” upon the darker side of ASMR, if you will. You’ll find a lot of “sexy” ASMR like borderline to porn. Like a guy or girl moaning and having an orgasm. There’s pretty much a ton of various kind of ASMR, you just have to find your right flavor.

Now. The one I’m talking here, this is not your regular ASMR, this is next level ASMR. I found this channel when I was bored one night. The kind of ASMR this guy doing is in the middle of relaxation ASMR and erotica ASMR, just in the middle. Sexy without being vulgar. And the blank screen and sexy voice swept me away when he said I look cute when I’m asleep and hot when I’m awake. I’m not a sucker for compliments, but damn, I believe him.

It’s been a week since, and I’ve been listening to his sultry voice every night now. I’m falling asleep listening to his story about his teddy bear he used to hug when he was a young boy, how he sometimes hurt the neighbor but never and will never hurt me, how he plants kisses on my cheeks, and how he loves our angry sex. I must agree, angry sex is the best, and he seems understand that. All the nails and blood, that is pure primal. Yum!

You may have your white noise to help you sleep, but I have a man with sexy voice rambling about how he wants to have anteater as a pet, but actually what he really wants is tiger but he’s afraid that it might scares the neighbor.

If you haven’t judge me already after those 6 paragraphs, thank you, for having such an open-mind, to know that there’s pretty much room for anything in this world. BDSM, DDLG, and listening to ASMR to help you asleep. Of course except those things that hurt other people, like rape or pedophilia. Me, I don’t hurt anyone. I’m just listening to some “unique” ASMR.

I feel safe. I feel so safe, I can fall asleep instantly. I forget to turn off the laptop and let him rambles on my ears as I’m asleep. Then in the morning, I wake up to his voice still rambling about the country side and anteater on repeat. I don’t even know this guy real name, I don’t know what his face looks like, but I’d love to.

I’ve fallen for game characters, I’ve fallen to movie characters, I’ve fallen to actors, and I’ve fallen to strangers on the street. But I haven’t fallen to a nameless faceless voice, until now.

Please don’t call the doctor on me. Because I don’t feel sick.

I know.

I’m fucked up like that.

Misery Loves Me

I’ve been meaning to write about this one. Call it a tribute to a band that saved my last year of college. I was going through a bad breakup, but then every one of my breakup is a bad one. So, nothing new. But this one is kinda critical to my life. I’d consider it my first serious attempt of a relationship. A reluctant relationship, but still, a serious one. It was the first time in my life I had an 11-month relationship. Imagine! Me, having endure that long period of time. It wasn’t easy and I wasn’t definitely not coming out of it unscathed.

Relationship for me is always a battle. Usually always ended with me as a wounded victim (or survivor, depends on how long after the relationship end you asked me) and an evil, evil man on the other side. This one was nothing new. After my third one, it’s just boring, you know? I know the drill.

You met someone. Think they were so awesome, so new and shiny. Then like a bottle of soda that has been opened too long, it fell flat. After you know them, it was just routine. And believe me, this one was a very interesting fella with a lot of experiences. He showed me things and taught me stuff. But still, in the end, he bored me. Of course, at the time I wasn’t telling him that I was bored, no. I told him, he was mean. That he was too unpredictable. He was evil and unholy. That this wasn’t right. I still tell myself those things sometimes. Sometimes it felt good to know that men are still hurting you. Fucked up, I know. Tell that to my 16-year-old self. She is definitely the starting point. It makes you feel good sometimes, to know that you still hurt, that you are still the victim and not the one inflicted the pain.

It’s definitely the narrative I choose, a poor girl traumatized by all the bad shit and terrible men in her life, grew up to be a tough girl but fixated to bad boys. Though over the year it’s no longer true. Yes, daddy’s a bad husband, but he was a good father. My first man may be not the ideal first love, but it was a long time ago, how long can I milk that story of betrayed and cheated high schooler? The other men may be not all good, but it happens to everyone. I am not special.

And that’s the punch of the year that I’m not special. That my pain was ordinary. So the writings stop. But the writer in me refused. No. If misery won’t pay attention to me, I’ll make him love me.

That’s how it all started. The very first time we met, I know this man was up to no good. The glint of his eyes was off, yet captivating.

You can ride with me.

 I’ll speed it up.

Hang on to me, or else you will fall.

These words he said, even a kid would have sense the danger dripping off him. So I gave him my smile. My smile wasn’t the only thing he wanted.

Anyway, fast forward to 9 month later, I’ve seen it all. At least, I’ve seen all the things he could offer. He was frustrated. I was bored. He was confused. I was unhappy. We were like gasoline and fire. We love passionately and we hate ferociously. I thought it would be nice when the bomb went off. Instead I was standing in ruin and wondering what the fuck I was doing. I would be lying if I wasn’t hurt even though I was the one who pull the trigger, the bullet ricochets.

I was raw and one of my dear friend knew that I wasn’t in a good place. She introduced me to this song. We were sitting at a coffee place I like. She gave me one of her ear buds and I’m in love.

Dance, Dance by Fall Out Boy was flowing and I felt much better. The rawness of the tune and the hit-on lyrics made me smile.

I’m two quarters and a heart down,
And I don’t want to forget how your voice sounds.
These words are all I have so I’ll write them.
So you need them just to get by.

I could write you pages of words, rambling and ranting, and it wouldn’t be as clear as these line that Pete Wentz wrote. And the words

This is the way they’d love, if they knew how misery loved me.

Then and there, I was at peace. Although I still required to act disgusted, I knew what happened. I knew what he was. And, yes, the moment I unmasked him the very first time we met, he saw right through me and saw me for I am. That’s why he loved me the way he did. That’s why he treated me the way he did. Because he knew what I’m worth. Because he knew what I am. And that’s what I’m deserved. That’s what I want. Misery. And he gave me just that.

Too Young To Know

I was too young to know what love means and I couldn’t wait until I old enough to understand. Because your world spun faster than mine and that night was the only window our universe aligned. And I only had seconds to jump to yours, and mid-air I thought the air was different here in your world, because I could barely breathe as I said yes to the airwave that brought my trembling voice to your speaker kilometres away from my night.

I was too young to know what the butterflies in my stomach means and I couldn’t spare the time to calm down and contemplate on what the future holds. Because every single night seemed so colourful and unusually loud, banging with explosions in rhyme with the beat of my heart, and everything else seemed so insignificant. I could barely wait for morning to come when I could taste how warm your sun was. As I dreamed I couldn’t dream as the void of black I was so familiar with was exploded into technicolor.

I was too young to understand what this relationship means and I couldn’t think of a right question for you to answer. Because you were my light on the end of the tunnel and I was blinded once you told me I’m here. But as days in your world end faster than mine, as promises in your world mean nothing, as decisions in your world change by the second, I was too young to understand what that look in your face means. Like you could not understand what my silence means, like you could not understand what my days mean, like you could not understand what sixteen means, and I thought you lied when you said you were leaving.

I thought you lied when you said you were leaving.

I thought you lied when you said you were leaving.

I thought you lied when you said you were leaving.

I was too young to understand what it means.

What do you mean you are leaving?

 

Hymen Hymen in The Pussy

hymen hymen in the pussy,
you’re the most important of all,
deep inside my body,
break or not represent my gall.

hymen hymen in my pussy,
why should I rhyme to make they read me?
if I make an off tune line like this,
would they go and call my words a slut?

hymen hymen in your pussy,
did your boyfriend ask about it?
finger-bang you in the back row of superheroes movie,
make sure you pure and sweet like the girls in his favorite hentai.

hymen hymen in the pussy,
why does congress talk about you?
like you are the most important lines there are,
above the blurred lines between rape and sex.

because hymen in the pussy,
there are no lines should deny men’s right of you.
because hymen in the pussy,
you are important for men to marry,
not important enough in the back alley.
but if in a rape tragedy,
you disappear,
then it would appear,
that you are not worthy of men’s law.

hymen hymen in the pussy,
why did you let him touch you?
why did you wear that skirt?
where were you going in the pitch black night?

hymen hymen in the pussy,
represent my dignity.
what use my brain and honesty,
without hymen in my pussy.

Seventh, Repeat

To be in love, one has to be stupid and hopeful. And we are neither of that. And yet, here we are, dancing in space while the time silently sneaking behind us. Why we expect to outshine the sun when we are living under the blood moon? How do we sing when there is no air? How do we love without heart?

Let me tell you the story of the couple of Ice Ship.

Once upon a time, there they were, gliding the waves in the eye of the storm, waiting to be ravaged. And they knew it was coming. And they can hear the bellow of the beast. And they can taste the metal and dust. And they can see the wrathful winds. And they can feel the kiss of the death, just right there in the next row, in the next second, in the next minute, maybe in a few months. Somewhere in the next waves. Sometime under the clad black cloud.

But it was coming, it was inevitable.

And still, there they are, attaching their heartstrings, like they have a chance. Like they don’t care or maybe don’t understand. Or maybe simply they pray the storm would just vanish and let them alone.

You have to be crazy. You have to be stupid. You have to be hopeful to have a chance in love. And it will come in waves.

First, there is an unshakable feeling of loneliness. Second, there is an undeniable feeling of drifting apart. Third, being constantly stuck in-between anger and sadness. Fourth, there is a growing hatred and grudges for the other one. Fifth, crash and burn. Explode. Sixth, leave in tears. Always in tears. Always the victim. Always miserable.

Seventh, repeat.

What it is.

In retrospect, whatever feelings I had for you was not sincere. It was lust. It was hunger. It was a thirst that needed quenching. It was an infatuation, a mere fuel to burn whatever fumes I had left. It was a catharsis. It was a palpitation, an effort to feel alive. It was an annual routine of picking anyone with a right amount of manliness and mystery. It was a quest, to prove that I still feel. It was a ‘look-at-me-I-can-manage’.

It was a lie. It was an embellishment of attachment I can’t even afford. It was an attempt to become normal. It was an alarm clock.  It was a way for me to wake up in the morning. It was a conversation piece, so I looked interesting. I was hopelessly adore you. I was a story of my own plot. I was the main character and you were the guy I can never have.

It was an explosion of the fourth wall when you call me. It was surreal. It was absurd. It was a parody. It was a catastrophe. It was a mutiny of my paper character. It was confusing yet exiting. It was believably unbelievable. It was out of control.

Until I took it over.

It was a game. It was a bet. It was something awful coming right in the corner. It was a false sense of achievement. It was an irrefutably irreversibly wreck waiting to happen and I was driving 100 kilometres per hour, waiting to be destroyed. It was exiting yet confusing. I was ready. I was ready to be miserable. I was sadly happy. It was a rush with a hush of hurt me. It was adrenaline. It was me running on fumes of tears. It was a desire to feel.

It was crazy. It was unwise and foolish. It was irrational of you to choose a damage goods like me. It was wild and stupid, are you fucking stupid? Why the fuck would you want me? It was weirdly unreal. It was fantastically unnatural. It was perverted. It was never meant to be, I was meant to be hurt. It was strange, as I ache for the wounds you owe me. Where’s my wound and gush of blood that I supposed to get? Why won’t you harm me? It was an unwelcome affection. It was loathed. It was despised. It was odd of you to bear with me. Why would you bear with me. It was scary. It was petrifying the thought of me depending on you, get used to you. It was harmful. It was bloodcurdling. It was chilling. It was too much.

It is so beautiful I can barely breathe. It is so natural. It is a daily life. It is a routine, a stunning routine. It is me drowning in pink sea of black. It fits. It is liked. It is wanted. It is me can’t sleep in the night before you say goodnight. It is me getting sad when you frown. It is me, day by day, scared for my life, if the day ever come for you to leave me unfixable. It is you melting my ice drop by drop. It is something I can’t write because I don’t know enough of it to write it. It is tough to describe because I do not know the word. It is your smile or your eyes or your voice or your hair or your touch or could be anything you do and do not do. It is everything of you. It is delightfully mesmerising. It is charmingly wonderful. It is simply complicated. It is superbly exquisite.

It is you and this is me telling you what it is.

 

The Death of The Author

I just watched a let’s play of “The Beginner’s Guide” by the creator of Stanley Parable, Davey Wreden.
It got me thinking so hard and somehow the game is so relatable, but in the manner that I can’t even describe. So I started watching it from the beginning and then it clicks.
I understand what made it so relatable. Just when it clicked, I saw a comment about how it related to The Death of The Author. Pushed by the comment, I went to WordPress and write this.

I think the game really capture the essence of “The Death of The Author” by Roland Barthes. It’s about taking an art as an art, and not using the art to judge the creator. Some people think because an art can be judged, analysed, dissected for a meaning, that means that they can also do that to the creator, because the art and the creator is one and the same. But they are not the same. It is not reasonable to say that because someone make an art (be it novels, short stories, movies, paintings, etc), the contents of that art tells you something about the creator. Because an art is not real. But the creator is real. It is unfair to limit a person by their effort to make an art addressing uncomfortable issue or maybe a violent fantasy that the person themselves won’t even imagine to do in real life. People forget that creators are real people, with complexities that we unable to see just from the arts they made. You can analysed a character, for example, because that what they are made for, to be analysed. None of that should tempt people to mirror it to the creator. Characters are not real, if you say something hurtful, you can’t hurt the characters, because they are not real. But if you say that a creator is a horrible person by judging them based on their arts when they never know anything about them, that’s hurtful because the creator is real.

It is relatable because I experience it. I love writing about uncomfortable subjects and horrible twisted characters. It is really uncomfortable for me when someone say it reflects me, that it looks like a story about MY life. It seems that they telling me about MY life is. Some stories, of course, inspired by some events in my real life, but it is not necessary about me. It could be about stranger I met or people I knew.
And the finished works are not me. They are a creation by me. It’s insulting for me if people say things like that, it’s like they are saying that I don’t even have the imagination and creativity to make up some story. The Death of The Author is not just some phrase that you heard on your lecture or some words that you just scribble down in order to get a good grade. It means something.

People are welcome to analyse my works and my characters. But, none of my works should reflects my person and psyche.
It’s unfair and it’s insulting.
It’s hurtful.
I hope people would just understand that.