Hartini.

I tried to write a eulogy for you today. In fact, I've been trying to write it down for days now. But the words won't come, or maybe they did, but I sent them away so I won't have to face your death. Remembering only makes the death more real than it already is. Pushing the memory away makes me less vulnerable, less painful. Every time someone mentions about your death, I would picture you with all five of us. We would be hanging out together this school holidays just like you planned last month. You'd be complaining about your weight and I'd be telling you the downside of being slim - that if you crossed the roads, people would run you over with their cars, because from the sideways, it's like you weren't even there. You'd double over with laughter and tell me that I'm a psycho. I liked that story better, so I painted it over the real one, thinking that once I erased it, it'll be gone. And like any other grieving best friends, I believe that not thinking about it is the right thing to do. But I was wrong. If I erased your death, there would be no way for me to take a look back and remember you. All of you.

When I first learnt about your death, I tried to take in what they were saying about you, but most of it went over my head. The death itself was unreal, but what hit me most was the suddenness of it, the totality of you that was lost, the same person who took eight years marking her presence in my life, only to be wiped away in seconds. And as I scrolled down the many comments and statuses about your death, my mind was frantically searching the memories stashed inside, trying to remember the last impression you had of me. What was the last thing I told you? Have I ever saved you in every way that a person can be saved? Did I tell you I love you enough? And even if I didn't, did you know it anyway? You see, first impression is often altered in time. When you get to know someone, like really get to know them, there is always a chance of you changing your mind. But last impression is nothing like that. It's infinite, permanently engraved, like writings on a tombstone. The final moments you left in someone's life stay unchangeable, it's like forever, but longer.

I tried scrolling down all the private messages flooding my inbox, each asking about you. Was it true that Tini passed away? I'm sorry about Tini. Have you heard the news? Did Tini really pass away? I didn't reply to any of them because I didn't know how. How do people respond when asked about their best friend's death? What's the right way to answer it? Is there a right way to answer it? Should a brief 'yes' be fine? Or should I extend my condolences to them as well? I never had a best friend who died. So you see, I'm a noob. I sincerely apologize to any of you whose messages left unattended.

Within seconds, I was already dialing Sya's number. I had no idea what I wanted to tell her or ask her. My hands just went autopilot. She had me at hello. I broke down. Then she broke down. For the first five minutes, none of us said anything. We just stayed there, phones in our hands, crying and breaking each other's hearts, all at the same time. In case you were wondering what did two best friends say to one another after they had lost one of their own, well, they said nothing. Because that's what we did. There were so many things to say, and yet none was equivalent to that void space you left behind. Before the conversation ended, there were only few words being exchanged, made up of a string of mumbled apologies, regrets and farewells.

So you see, today I read the eulogies posted on your wall. It's weird reading people wrote about you in past tense. You should have read them, they were pretty nice. Everyone wanted to mark their presence in your life, reminiscing their brief encounter with you, their small talks with you despite never seeing you in person, trying to show the world that they too, had once been a part of your life, and shared moments with you. You see, I could write down all the small things I know about you. The songs you listen to when you woke up, the way you tied your hair depending on your mood, the routinized clothes you wore when you woke up late to class, the way you went up the stairs two steps at a time in the morning and one step at a time in the evening. I could write on and on about the little things that make you you. But that would be an insult to me. Because I know you. And I don't need the world to understand that. I just need you to know that. Know that I noticed. Know that I knew. Know that I remember. Know that I care. Know that they meant to me, even if I never said them. Know that if there is any way I could tell them to you right now, I would.

Today, I finally managed to write you my eulogy. Here it is, in a sentence - short like the life you lived, and true like the friendship you left behind:

"Hartini was a friend, whom if you gave her a handful of black marbles, she would still see them as colourful, and she would give every coloured marble to each one of us, until she was left with none, and still she gave."

Hartini Ibrahim.
28 Oct 1987 - 21 Dec 2013.
Al-Fatihah. May you finally rest in peace.

Last words.

learn the hard way.

I don't think you will ever truly learn something until you make a mistake out of it. And I'm not saying that you should run out there on the street and make mistake immediately and intentionally. That would be plain stupid. I'm saying that if you can see through those mistakes, you are less likely to repeat them. It's a lot like love and romance. Love and romance cannot co-exist. At least not in the way you want it to be.

Romance is candy-like. It is all sweet and sugary. The moment it touches even the tip of your tongue, you will feel the unspeakable joy. The true sensation of happiness.

But it melts just as quickly.

Now what remains after that is love. Love is the remainder of romance. When you're young and free and naive, all you wanted was romance. You can put the blame on anything. I personally blame those Asian drama series that infiltrated our media in the late 1900s. Whatever triggers this obsession with romance, one thing that was clear is that the effect was outrageous.

But once you get older and had your heart broken, smashed, crushed, slammed into walls after walls, or even had a temporary heart failure, you will eventually learn one significant lesson.

That love beats romance any time. You can't live with romance forever. You have to realize that with romance comes expectation. Expectation was the one that broke your heart. Love won't do that to you. Because with love comes acceptance. It comes with the knowledge that the candy will melt and the sweetness will fade. And yet, it doesn't bother you as much as you thought it would.

Because sometimes once you build a life with someone, you will learn to forget romance in order to learn to live together with love. Love is not what's in it for you. It's how much you can give as you grow old together. Be realistic. You can't forever be Edward and Bella.

If you really want to love, learn to love like Snape loves Lily.

the passing of warmth.

It's difficult. Giving something I love for someone else. It has always been a difficult thing for me to do. I found it agonizing to give up something that I've protected. It has always been that way.

When I was a kid, I've already figured out what I wanted to do with my life. I want to write. I don't know exactly what my life would be about, but I knew that it has something to do with writing. Somehow it has to be. And I knew that, because I woke up every morning, and in those first few seconds, I would try to remember my dreams and I wrote them on a piece of paper. And on days I couldn't remember, I made them up.

And because of my love for words, I began to love reading. I was addicted to them. I build a sanctuary out of them. Living the lives of those fictional characters. Sometimes I was a detective, other times I became the dragon slayer. I could be anyone. But one thing I could not tolerate was for someone to read my books. Often I would hide my books under my pillows or in my blanket. I was scared.

I have always been scared. Scared that what I love would be destroyed in the hands of someone else, particularly my sister. I always believed that I could protect what I love more than anyone else. I was always scared that the pages would be torn, I was scared that the sides of the book would be folded, I was scared that they would spill water all over the book. I was always scared. If only the books could talk, I believe that they too, would prefer to be under my care. I believe that more than anything.

But as I grew up, I left home. I got into university and rented a house. I left the books at home. One day when I got back, they were gone. My mum donated them to charity because she thought that they were of no use to me anymore. They were dusty and yellowed. And at that moment it hit me. If I had given them to my sister, she could protect them as she was staying at home during the time. That was the day I realized that there would be times when I couldn't protect the things I love anymore. And instead of not knowing what their fate would be, I could give them to someone else that could possibly protect them better. To protect them when I wasn't there. To be there for them when I couldn't.

I am an adult now. I have learnt that besides book, there are more things I love that I have to give up. And sometimes, to give them up for someone else. I've tried to live my life ordinarily, but somehow I kept seeing things that filled all these places, but I can't reach them. No matter how much those things mean to me, I couldn't protect them enough.

I guess, sometimes if you let go of the things you love, there might be someone else who can protect them better than you do. And so for all the things I love that I've let go of, I hope you are in better hands, wrapped around the arms of someone who can protect you better than me. I hope the warmth lasts.

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.