English, Life, Miscellaneous, Philosophy, Serious Talk

Why do we pray at all?

If God answers the prayers of the believers,
does God also answer the wishes of the non-believers?

Or is everything moving based on some general law
that works autonomously and automatically?

But if everything has been set and decided,
why do we pray at all?

English, Grumble, Philosophy, Poetry

Meanwhile company

I don’t want to merely be a meanwhile company
A brief phonecall while you’re biking
A short chatter while you’re driving
A fresh amusing conversation while you’re idle in a waiting room or a bus or train or plane taking you to places interesting

I want to be in your particular time
A spot among 24 hours that is actually reserved for me
For us catching up with how are you doing, do you miss me?

It’s been 19 hours since the last time I heard from you
If this is a game you’re playing, well sorry
I’d rather make some other meaningful story
Where I’m not just a filler temporarily


English, Poetry

The Last

That was a fine evening
with stars and breezy wind
with your arm around my waist
and your lips once on mine.

If only I knew that was the last time
If only I knew that was the last kiss
I would have done it better.

As it is pathetic that I can’t perfectly remember
that one last moment.

24 February 2008

English, Life, Philosophy, Poetry

Desire and fear

The desire of having soon will be replaced by the fear of losing.

I read this line the first time more than nine years ago, but I can’t remember where exactly and who actually wrote it.

I was instantly mesmerised by the beautiful rhyme. I was captivated by the humility radiating from the phrase. I love its honesty and the sense of resignation emanating from it.

It displays a recognition of various pure sensation of wanting and then realising that there is possible course of losing. It’s romantic and at the same time tragic.

English, Grumble, Life, Philosophy, Poetry

The problem with love

The problem with (this kind of) love is you lose control

It comes so strong, you don’t get a chance to hold on
It underrates your dignity, let you torn up between hopes and reality
It makes the rest parameters of your life less significant
It never cares how you will rise and fall

This (kind of) love has that one problem
But hey, we probably don’t need control
And maybe instead I can write longer poem about…

The beauty of (this kind of) love.

English, Grumble, Life, Serious Talk, Urban Living

One month and nineteen days

It’s been one month and nineteen days since I first stepped my feet in Germany. Sounds so absurd even to just type it down here. One-month-and-nineteen-days-in-Germany. Three years ago, this was just a wild dream. Three years ago, this was just something I told myself what I might be able to do.

“Hey, why don’t you quit your job? You are bored and you don’t learn much anymore. Why don’t you move out of Jakarta? The city gets more overwhelming. Why don’t you leave Indonesia? The politics is getting tiresome. Why don’t you study again? You have enough saving.”

All those why-don’t-yous have been turning to a yes for me. I did it. I quit the job. I moved out of Jakarta. I left Indonesia. I’m studying again. I’m here now. Ticking and doing every single thing which were once just some distant wishes.

Shouldn’t I be happy?

I should. And I am. Most of the times. Other times, I’m surprised to realise how scared I am facing and experiencing all this new adventure. At times I feel so powerless. I used to be so self-assured on what I master and what I enjoy to do. I was good at work, I did much crafting, enjoying the evenings with friends talking about dreams and shits. Now I’m just a stupid student, earning none, creating none, enjoying the evenings with no close friends to talk about dreams and shits.

I don’t quite understand it. I’m bewildered with much frustration, instead of amusement. I get what I want, yet I’m not content. I’m constantly alert with anticipation. What do I miss? Are all set? What now? What next?

Can that be the problem?

You know, maybe the problem is when we don’t actually live and enjoy what we get and what we have now. My mind keeps telling me to think one or two or many steps ahead. Instead of appreciating the fresh air I breathe after running in the quiet park with beautiful autumn colours, my brain tends to jump much forward with many unhealthy what-ifs. What if I don’t speak German enough once I finish my study? What if I won’t be qualified for decent jobs here? What if I can’t build close friendship with the new people? What if I’m running out of time and money before I’m settling down?

(long pause)

Ah, it’s pretty late now. I get really sleepy too. I think I better put off all this weary thoughts and go to bed now. Tomorrow is a new day.

English, Grumble, Life, Philosophy, Poetry, Serious Talk

Product of a broken heart

We are all a product of a broken heart. How miserable that sounds, doesn’t it? But that’s the (ugly) truth. Our heart once broken. Or twice, or you might lose count as you have a really fragile one. But we fix it every time. That broken heart. Sometimes it takes one round of a full moon, sometimes a season, sometimes a little less than a lifetime.

The heart breaks for different reasons. And sadly, the ones caused by the closest persons you have are the ones that hurt the most. That’s the kind of wound which will take the hardest effort and longest time to recover from.

We are all a product of a broken heart. Sufferings affect us greatly and change us. They cause us fear, paranoia, pessimism and well, cynicism. It’s never easy to get back up again. How to trust again? In ourselves, in other people? How to forgive when they, who did us wrong, don’t even apologize, that they’re not even sorry? How to be optimistic that something beautiful will come visit us again? But like any other wounds, broken heart will heal. Like any physical pain, the heart will recover if we tend it carefully.

Oh dear friends, we are all a product of a broken heart. Let’s take a good care of this one-and-only heart with patience, acceptance, and gentleness.