Literature, personal

[CERPEN]: THE NOMADS OF THE EAST

paul-almasy-gruppe-von-nomaden-in-einer-oase-sahara-afrika-1343919171_b
credit: Paul Almasy: Gruppe von Nomaden in einer Oase, Sahara, Afrika (1955)

We were the Nomads of the East.

I always thought that Earth was the loneliest place in the universe. The roads we took on, all the trees had gone from their roots to the tiniest twigs, the burning asphalt in the summer, the piercing cold of the water in the river everytime we took a sip, the blazing sun although illuminating thousands of iridescent glows could never lift up the shadows within each of our heart.

Say, I had always been on the edge of my non-existent-wooden chair in regard to know the world before us. And what was beyond us. Since I was born I had wanted to set my feet to every inch of the land, leaving traces of wherever I was. But, then, was not that how were living our lives? Wandering her and there, not belonging anywhere.

Until it was later, I found out that if there should be one single thing my heart so desperately desired to obtain, it was a place called home.

Continue reading “[CERPEN]: THE NOMADS OF THE EAST”

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Literature

[SHORT STORY]: THE SMOKE BECOMES YOU

Cisentor, Mount Argopuro (In frame: F. Ardiansyah)

♫♪ || Waiting the World to Change – John Mayer; Intuisi – Yura; Beauty is You – Abdul and the Coffee Theory; Dealova – Once; Mimpi – Isyana Sarasvati


It begins with the very first of the hundreds pages.

To Supernova, the flaming burst, the dance of falling stars

This is how I fathom my thoughts to depict the constellations

Today is the day when everything is re-framed and the wall is made of inks and papers

And it is simply beautifully hopeful.

So, I create: are we out of the woods yet?

===

Rain approaches her visions like dull melody from distance away, chilling the lonely soul to the marrow, drifting deep into the box of memories without giving a way. The sun is completely hidden beneath rows of dark grayish clouds as she wonders whether the weather has just turned wild since the sunrays cannot be even seen from the place she resides herself, taking in such melancholy scent of the droplets on once dry earth. For a moment she can reminisce of this state being, where she is utterly absorbed in this lucid sensory details—the raindrops skittering down a window, tall trees leaning in the wind, pair of arms embracing her narrow shoulders keeping her away from any harm.

It turns out that those arms are the inner side of her sleeping bag. She catches a sight of the dome from the yellow summer tent.

She also can make out that the sun does not wish to be found.

The young man is outside. Maybe he has this certain wish not to be found either. In the middle of the vast savanna. Alluring, ravishing, endearing in the most pleasant way. There is a hint of warmth tinging her cheeks each time she recalls any memory regarding him.

They never mind if he frequently strives on daydreaming. Completely immersed in one single thought. It could be a rampant imagination, vivid hope, or perhaps, a mere prayer.

She keeps a journal made of faces and dates. Polaroid collages with small sentences inscribed underneath. It is the synopsis of Lalita Parvati: neighbors, acquaintances, old friends, new strangers conveyed in military precision.

She takes out a Polaroid camera, taking a photograph of him who has been heavily drenched in cold water. His sunkissed skin is adorned in trails of lurid gray—the blood has drained to the feet from his lips. It is almost natural to post the picture near the end of those pages. A snapshot of silhouette amidst the fuzzy fogs, murky dusk from the edge forming a vignette, greyish with a hunting tone of sepia, his back is facing the lens, not allowing anyone to take a peek of his expression. Always keeping a secret.

However, she cannot resist to imagine a certain smile. Of passion and kindness, a gentle heart, the ensnared senses, the bewitched soul. She can picture of sunshine, saccharine-coated voice along with a particular hum of lullaby, followed by unearthly scents which fill the damp air. They are just so thick, stirring on her mind like a terminal illness.

She does not realize until now, that his scent lingers on her clothes.

Black carbon. And the other substances just don’t matter.

Continue reading “[SHORT STORY]: THE SMOKE BECOMES YOU”