daydreamer

does the person create the journey, or the journey create the person?

i’m just here for the what-the-fuck!

semoga

Kamu bahagia? Saya lihat kamu tertawa. Semestinya saya bisa ikut bersuka, tapi yang saya rasa lagi-lagi duka. Ah, sudah lah.. Mari kita berdoa. Untuk kamu agar selalu bahagia, pun bagi lara saya. Semoga. Entah apa, hanya semoga.~

just..

Hari ini saya memaafkan diri saya yang tidak melawan kamu, karena kepala saya memang harus diinjak untuk bisa memaafkan kamu. Namasté.

Mirror by Sylvia Plath

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions. Whatever I see I swallow immediately Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike. I am not cruel, only truthful — The eye of a little god, four-cornered. Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall. It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long I think it is part of my heart. But it flickers. Faces and darkness separate us over and over. Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me, Searching my reaches for what she really is. Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon. I see her back, and reflect it faithfully. She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands. I am important to her. She comes and goes. Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness. In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

At Night by Franz Kafka

Deeply lost in the night. Just as one sometimes lowers one’s head to reflect, thus to be utterly lost in the night. All around people are asleep. Its just play-acting, an innocent self- deception, that they sleep in houses, in safe beds, under a safe roof, stretched out or curled up on mattresses, in sheets, under blankets; in reality they have flocked together as they had once upon a time and again later in a deserted region, a camp in the open, a countless number of men, an army, a people, under a cold sky on cold earth, collapsed where once they had stood, forehead pressed on the arm, face to the ground, breathing quietly. And you are watching, are one of the watchmen, you find the next one by brandishing a burning stick from the brushwood pile beside you. Why are you watching? Someone must watch, it is said. Someone must be there.

The Sandman by Neil Gaiman

Have you ever been in love? Horibble isn’t it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart, and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can’t hurt you… then one stupid person, no different from any stupid person, wanders into your stupid life… You give them a piece of you. They didn’t ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn’t your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple phrase like ‘maybe we should just friends’ turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It’s a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love