saving private gladi

(sometime in october) 

i do not know what time it is. one of the rarest moments in my daily life. the wall clock stopped ticking. i am too lazy to check my mobile phone’s time. and even more sluggish to turn the tv on to check the current news. i wanted to feel the luxury of being lost in space, even for this one stolen evening.

if only i could tear all these out, maybe i’m a better person. 

For the first time since this orange sofa set came in our house, it’s only now that i finally found a comfortable position in its corner. Earlier, i was holding a blue book i purchased from a booksale months ago, longing for a day to come that i can finally have the appetite to reach out for it and make a good jumpstart in my life. Hours ago, there was the noisy music from the neighbor’s playlist. But now, there’s nothing. No sound at all. Only the deep sound of the night and the droplets of water from the bathroom’s silly faucet.

and i feel like crying. Just cry. Maybe an attempt to stir away the faked headache.

and i hope i never heard lies. I hope i never met some people so i wont always end up bombarding my brain to forget. And i hope erasing wont take so much pride, pain and headache. i hope some people never pushed me to my very limit, so i can still hope to have them back. I hope i never have to leave whenever i get myself damn hurt. 

But maybe, that’s the only way i know. and God knows what my heart desires, to atleast save a piece of myself. And to start from there. Goodluck to me. 

 

Read more...

No one. No one will remember.

One noon after work, i decided to drop by to my then office. It was still the very same office; my things are still neatly sitting there as i left it. (i remember kidding mija not to let anyone touch my stuff else...) 

I sat there. And once more, made connections with the comfort brought by the blue swivel chair that once been claimed as mine. i closed my eyes and laid my back to its just-right firmness.  My palms went over the curves of it as my fingertips slide into the sides of my wooden table’s glass imperfection. I flip over to the pages of my counselees’ records. One thing is for sure, i broke my promise. I can no longer be there for them. The idea breaks me. 

Two and half years, i said to myself. Who can forget the first day i sat on that chair? Who can forget the first time i made a memo letter for that office? Who can forget the very first student i encountered, and the very first one who came back and to say thank you? and who can forget the very first time my boss gave me his popular hand gesture?

No one. No one will remember. 

Two and half years. It did not take me a lifetime. How come every inch of that room reminds me so much of myself? How come i feel a part of me has been left in every corner, in every space, in every paper and in everything existing inside that room? 

I was filled with emotions, if only i could sat in one corner and sleep there till my dreams take me to neverland, so i can feel that at least for a night, the whole thing had been mine.

But as darkness eats the dusk, i know i had to leave. and i just be thankful. 


(well, that afternoon was my way of saying a sweet goodbye. sorry if i invaded the office without any permission.  promise, that will be the last time. thank you.)
 

Read more...