indie talks.

there's something about indie movies -
something about the realness of it,
the ordinariness,
the small things in life that they portrayed,
the moments that felt surreal and familiar all at the same time,
that random lines thrown by the characters that embodied who you used to be or about to be,
the simplicity of defining love;
and ultimately defining lost,
that feeling of knowing the characters;
of knowing that no matter how much they cared for one another,
no matter how many promises they made infinitely,
how close they are to happy end,
they will never be together.
it shows precisely what life is not about, grounding you back to reality -
that everything is beautiful,
but nothing is forever.

"We accept the love we think we deserve" - Stephen Chbosky

trapeze.

There are only so many of us born at a time and we are thrown into the world to find each other, to find the other ones who don't think you're strange, who understand your jokes, your smile, the way you talk.

There are only so many of us born at a time and we only have so long to find each other before we die.

But we have to try. - taken from IWroteThisForYou

drugged.

when we become strangers.

I am particularly good at hoarding. And no, not because those things are of use to me, but rather the memories they hold, the moments embedded in them. And this habit, more often than not, pains me more than pleasures me. I guess the reason I attached myself to memories are because they are the only things that remain constant, unchanged, whereas people do change. So I treat them as time capsule, buried them deep. When I felt that the world is more cruel than it already is, I retreat to those moments, build a sanctuary out of them, so that the world and everything in it won't hurt me. I slowly became prisoner of my own past, not because I couldn't find the keys, but rather I am scared that the world beyond the prison is much worse than being behind the bars.

But perhaps I was wrong.

The world has so much to offer. And yes, I admit that my life is currently not going the way I've always planned it to be. I do envy them sometimes - other people whose life plan collides with what God plans for them. That somehow, as if by a slip of fate, the way they plan their life correlates with what God has written for them. Amazing, isn't it? But because I am not one of those people who have the privilege of having a plan that magically matches with what God has planned for them, so it's difficult really, to see that His plan is greater than mine, because I am so full of myself sometimes. Well most of the times. Who would want to admit that they are wrong? But I do believe that God is right. That whatever He decides for me is right. And trust me, belief is a powerful thing.

Today I am less of a hoarder that I used to be. I packed up few things, burnt another few more, and save some of them. Not to hold me back, but more to remind myself of who I am, and was. So that the next time the world comes charging towards me with all the pain in its hand, I wouldn't simply lock myself in that sick prison. Because one thing I learned - happiness won't be found in a locked cell, hidden from the world.

If you are reading this one day, know that I have stopped borrowing the equivalent of you from other people around me. I find that there is no need to protect myself against you anymore and the gravity of pain that your memories could inflict. I want you to be happy with the life you have chosen. Because I am finally happy with mine now. I really am. We just grew up, and later grew apart, that's all. So one final thing I want you to do for me is to remember me. You don't have to miss me, that would be too much. Just remember me as someone who has been in your life once. And maybe, just maybe, if we passed by each other in the future, we could be strangers with shared memories.

lost, but unforgotten.

'Lost love is still love. It takes a different form, that's all. You can't see their smile or bring them food or tousle their hair or move them around a dance floor. But when those senses weaken another heightens. Memory. Memory becomes your partner. You nurture it. You hold it. You dance with it.'

anak yang menyenangkan.

Saya ini anak emak. Emak kata dia paling risau pada adik saya yang bongsu. Tukar kolej macam tukar baju seluar. Entah lepas ni tukar kolej lain pulak. Sebab itu kata emak, tiap kali lepas solat, emak akan doa sebut nama adik dahulu, kemudian baru yang lain. Kiranya ikut yang mana lebih terdesak. Begitulah lebih kurangnya.

Baru-baru ini kakak sulung saya bertanya pada emak, kalau adik bongsu yang pertama sekali disebut namanya, siapa pula yang terakhir? Nah, anak-anak emak ada enam orang semuanya. Agaknya yang terakhir itulah yang paling tak penting, seloroh kakak.

Emak saya jawab sambil tersenyum, yang terakhir sekali itulah anak kelima. Mengikut pengetahuan am saya, anak kelima itu tak lain tak bukan sayalah orangnya. Melainkan ada anak kelima lain yang dirahsiakan. Saya tarik muka masam. Paling tak penting rupanya.

Tapi kata emak kemudian, anak emak yang kelima itu anak yang menyenangkan, hatinya hati yang selalu rindu, hati yang lembut, mudah dibentuk. Hati yang selalu usaha kuat, dekat dengan emak ayah.

Saya tersenyum. Tapi esoknya setelah saya fikir-fikir, senyum itu makin hilang pula. Hati yang rindu? Rindukah hati saya? Walaupun kata orang tua-tua, naluri emak itu jarang benar salahnya, tapi saya rasa kali ini memang agak salah mungkin.

Hati saya hati yang keliru, hati yang kerap gusar. Hati saya hati yang pernah pilu, dahulunya pecah dek kerasnya untuk dibentuk. Hati saya juga hati yang ragu, acapkali tidak yakin pada kebijaksanaan Tuhan mengatur takdir. Dan saya fikir, yang paling utamanya, hati saya hati yang rapuh, walau cangkerangnya nampak teguh, isinya mudah dicarik-carik.

Lalu, wajarkah saya yang terakhir namanya disebut-sebut dalam doa emak? Bentak saya sendiri. Dengan ketidakpuasan hati itulah, saya bertanya sendiri pada emak. Antara anak pertama sampailah terakhir, siapa yang paling penting bagi emak? Dan jawapan emak itulah yang mematikan hujah saya, membuat saya sepi sepanjang hari.

Jawab emak, "Antara sayap kanan dan sayap kiri, yang mana satu lebih penting bagi seekor burung?"

Bermula hari itu juga saya belajar tentang sayang seorang emak.

the girl death left behind - a short story.

Death has taken away everything she loved and left her behind. She was the girl death left behind. Emily would often wondered, what would it be like to be someone else. What if she were born in someone else's place, live the life designed for them. Would she have done better in life? Would she have made all the right choices necessary? Would she be happier? Live more?

There was an old man by the cobbler shop, who always seem to be waiting for something. Or someone. She'd rather not know. Knowing is burden. Instead she found herself thinking, what would it be like to be that old man. Surely waiting freezes time, like the rivers are during winter - all solid and quiet. The act of waiting alone is poignant, almost beautiful in her mind. It wouldn't hurt to wait, Emily thought. It wouldn't hurt to be him.

And then there was the silly stuck-up princess, whose grandfather owns half of the town's land. Always with her petty friends, red heeled shoes and white-flowered dress. Whenever she walks among the crowds, there seem to be a sweet, almost rosy scent that she left behind; the epitome of wealth -  for no kids her age would wear a perfume as expensive that would linger for hours. Emily wondered what kind of mother she would have, who harbors great love for her daughter, that would not allow even a speck of dust to touch her daughter. She could live like that. She probably could love the mother more than the snobbish princess ever could. It was a life she could get used to, if given the chance.

And finally there was the stray cat down the alley. Kids adore this dirty old rag. In spite of his haggard appearance, the cat really knows how to purr, Emily noticed. And those big blue eyes were a big help too. The town's people would rush down to the cat and give whatever food they have in hands. Emily had to admit, even when the cat was one of the homeless, he definitely was welcomed almost everywhere. Funny though, no one was genuine enough to adopt him as the family's pet. She figured by now that it was a human thing - to make themselves feel good without overdoing it. Still, if being a cat, particularly that cat, means free meal, then that wouldn't be so bad after all, thought Emily. Better than having to clean the black back of pots for a mere quarter, or sometimes for a pence.

But today Emily found someone new. Someone who probably has been around for most of her life, but for some unknown reason, has never crossed her path. She had a basket of daisies in her hand - Emily's favourite. There seems to be a sun surrounding her being, radiating her light to others as she greet them. She was what you could only find in fairytale, a character walked out of a page in a slow motion. A painting, no - a portrait of a mother. Emily watcher her delicate hands, imagining them knitting a peach-coloured scarf for her beloved daughter. She would take her daughter for a walk in the park during autumn and put daisies in her hair. My hair, Emily thought.

Flashes of her own mother in reality suddenly came to mind - drunken, slurred and all messed up in her kitchen. No husband, only a daughter to put all the blame on. A daughter to be appointed as the breadwinner. Emily quickly retraced her mind. Don't go there, she silently begged herself. It was the life she loathed, the reality she questioned everyday. As she was about to turn around and head back to the lowly shelter she called home, something caught her eyes. The motherly figure with the basket of daisies bent down and put one of her daisies on a girl's hair. She hugged the girl and no doubt in Emily's mind that it was her daughter. The girl flashed a smug smile so familiar it crushed Emily's heart. The girl was now walking next to the mother, hand in hand, with her red heeled shoes echoing and white-flowered dress blowing, leaving behind a scent of rose.

At that time, Emily wished she was that girl, more than ever. Emily wished she was anyone else but herself.