SCENE I. An Apartment, San Francisco.

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

-Annabel Lee, Edgar Allan Poe

There we sat, not in the kingdom by the sea, but in his own room, the clock on the far wall was clicking unrelentingly thus making such eerie sound reverberating to each nook and cranny; it was rather a peculiar night: still, dissolved like diluted ink, almost disquieting in its serenity.

I was a child and he was a child, though people would address us as mere teens with our blissful and joyous adolescence days, but here we were, not in the kingdom by the sea, with I reading this poem to him. I did not have to make him to listen to my regular reading because he had always been conveniently fascinated by it, maybe it was my voice or somewhere between the verse. I would never know. I liked it when he would be completely captured in my reading, tilting his head to one side without uttering a word, his careful eyes bored into mine, we barely broke the staring-contest just because I had memorized each word by the heart.

When I reminisce to this memory, it was vivid and bright, perfectly clear. Just like a pictureperfect memory, there was only he and I, with the limitations reaching infinity, crystallized in this moment forever. I restored it in the secret box at the back of my head.

Continue reading “[KISAH]: JINGGA KALA SENJA – AKSARA”

Islam, personal

[RESPON]: Selfie Cantik Kekinian, Beneran, ah?

Sumber: @yanglagirame (Facebook Page)

Assalamu’alaykum warahmatullahi wabarakaatuh.


Tepat baru saja kemarin (23/11) saya ditunjukkan mengenai selfie yang disebut kekinian dan telah mulai mendarah daging bagi kaum manusia, terutama digandrungi oleh makhluk Venus yang ditulis oleh Agan Satria Baja Hitam di blog beliau (kemarin saya mencoba untuk membuka laman tersebut tetapi dialihkan ke tulisan lain).


Sebagai seseorang yang memiliki rasa ingin tahu sangat tinggi dan kecenderungan mencari sebuah validasi akan tiap argumen, saya mencari tahu forum yang disebutkan oleh beliau dengan bantuan Mbah Google. Ya, saya ketik keyword apapun itu yang tersebut dalam tulisan tadi.

Mengejutkan. Bahkan pikiran saya yang tidak lugu pun amat terkejut. Dan jijik.

Oke, mungkin saya memang lugu dan naif. Serta bersyukur belum pernah terpapar hal demikian, hingga pencarian yang mengantar ke laman tersebut. Semoga Allah Tabarakallahu Ta’Ala mengampuni saya akan kekhilafan dalam usaha yang tidak tahu benar atau salah.

Continue reading “[RESPON]: Selfie Cantik Kekinian, Beneran, ah?”



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.