pluieenmars

[pluieenmars]

April, tenth.

You were never your own.

The perfume lingers on your skin was not yours

The clothes covering your flesh and bones were some scraps your mom gave you

The way you chose your words are mom’s point of view 

crafted by desires and hopes of everything she could have been 

but nothing you could ever be

You were the rough sketch of mother’s youth

Mom spits fire from her mouth and to you, she called it truth

Home was where mom and you shelter, odd was knowing insult equals better

You were half daughter, half apology, all fire and tragedy

You realize life is ahead of you but in it, you’re nowhere to be found

You are 24

You live in mom’s folklore.

[pluieenmars]

I love this and I’ll always remember this. 

sometimes I remember that when most people think of power, they think in great explosions  or wealth, or access, or all three  they think of grand gestures. But for me when I think of power the first image that comes to mind is the girl with the posted-note on her mirror the girl who buys a beautiful planner the girl who tries so hard to get her foot in the door. I think about the girl who buried herself in books who learned that life is about the people in it and who makes flowers grow in the cracks of the pavement. I think of shared smiles and body shaking laughter and yes, I think of the bruised hearts, the scattered souls because power is not blazes of glory. Power is the girl who held my hand as I missed the train  power is  the girl who is my first text and my final goodbye. Power is  the girl who kicked down the wall with a smile and a blood red lipstick. Power is me, and all my girls reading this.

Zara, Pyhnta, Yessa, Hanna, Nada, Lathifah, Siska, Zahra.

[pluieenmars]

🥺🥺🥺 OKAY NOT CRYING LOVE U

Hanna

A set of a new fresh start is arriving at your door, answer that knock, wear your shoes and go outside. There’s so many people are waiting for your existence in their life. 

[pluieenmars]

someone's heart has been broken

You don't know how many hearts have you broken. You don't figure it out.

You just don't.

Sometimes it takes decades and endless mornings and nights to be aware of that.

Like how a father comes home and how love, that might be an unconditional and a deep one,

and it's never been fabricated with lies.

And the daughter believes it, so maybe it is true. So she shall believe it.

But one day he comes home with love laced up with lies. He still smile like he does every day but not today when it's all lies.

Maybe not the love. But it's still a lie.

She has believed every love that has been poured out to her, even til this day it's all true but,

it's still about one lie.

You don't know how she curls up in her bed losing all the trust she has in him. And when he wonders "Well isn't it just one lie? Compared to all the honest love I've given?",

she wonders, "It's very difficult to start over. It's really, really fucking hard.

But I'll try my best.

I promise I'll try."

You don't know when you've broken someone's heart. You just can't figure it out completely.

[pluieenmars]

On Restera...

On restera dans les illusions que vouz avez créé. On restera sous la définition de tous les rêves que nous avons construit dans la bruit, l'orage, le catastrophe, l'inquiètude, et tout ceux qui suivent.

On restera, un jour.

Mais jamais ici. Impossible à faire, aussi à imaginer. Non, ça serait pas suffisante.

Jamais ici. C'est trop douce.

Trop chaleureux. Il consiste trop de bonheur. On reste jamais ici. On ne vit pas comme ça.

[pluieenmars]

Mungkin, Nanti

Tatapannya nanar, tapi bola matanya berkilat. Sesungguhnya, kedua tatapan mata di hadapannya itu bukan miliknya sama sekali. Sesungguhnya, tangan yang menjulur kearahnya itu juga bukan miliknya sama sekali. Apalagi hembusan napas di telinganya. Sulit juga, terlebih ketika dia tahu pasti, darah yang mengalir dibalik lapisan kulit dan nadi-nadi yang berkelit itu adalah darah yang serupa yang memompa darah ke jantung dan seluruh organ tubuhnya. Sulit juga. Ibunya pudar menjadi kabut. Bapaknya memudar menjadi serpihan bayangan. Saudara kandungnya menjauh saat menghela napas dan ia mencium aroma-aroma dunia malam. Sesungguhnya, seberapa kuatpun dia mencoba, tali-tali kehidupan mereka tak bisa dia kendalikan. Jadilah dia berdiri tenang di tepi tebing, menatap hantaman ombak yang terus menyerbu dinding-dinding berbatu curam. Yang ada hanya seruan yang mendamaikan antara dirinya dan kesunyian. Antara dirinya dan kesendirian. Antara dirinya dan 'dirinya'. Tak ada yang salah, tetapi sulit. Tatapannya nanar, tapi bola matanya menembus jauh ke kegelapan.Tak ada yang benar-benar dia miliki; Lambat laun, dia yakin, mulai bisa berjabat tangan dalam damai untuk itu. Mungkin nanti sepenuhnya. Mungkin, nanti. [Gara-gara lagunya Kunto Aji nih yang Sulung, god bless this man and his extraordinary pieces goddamn.]

[pluieenmars]

The truth is mostly bitter.

Et on s'détruit la santé pour se sentir en vie

Orelsan

[pluieenmars]

Un jour, à Kota Tua. Octobre, 7 2017

[pluieenmars]

*3 - I Shall

His eyes were fatigue due to late night shift and his fingers felt like being plucked out one by one.

“I love you. You know that.”

I know.

But she was occupying his mind, maybe entirely, probably only a quarter of it—he couldn’t decide just yet. Her presence was as vivid as her thoughtful stares into his black, faded orbs. None of them were knackered enough to not speaking in between.

Short, heart wrenching talks that reminded him of few sad, melodramatic songs he could ever name of. Screw shits, he knew he was a soft one coming to certain stuffs.

“Is it enough?” She croaked.

She had let the windows open, even though clouds weren’t being generous enough and the wind was having a chaotic time dealing with whatever the hell it has with the sky and weather, none of them complained. Probably something was already frozen inside him as well.

Yes?

“Never.” She smiled. Bitter. “’Love’ is becoming so overrated, as if merely mentioning it means everything and it’s always enough. It has lost it’s real meaning.”

“So mine has never been enough?” He didn’t sound enraged, instead, it felt a little bit dull and sad. “Baby, I trust you, you know that.”

I know. He could hear her words echoed but no word was pronounced.

The air was thick enough, it carried around so many unspoken promises, lies, uncertainties and misplaced trusts, and he felt like burning the whole building down if it was the only way. But then again, it had never been a fictional tale, it had never been a scripted scenario, let alone short-termed stories. He clutched his last pack of cigarettes, counting down to five.

The night gazed down, bowing down to the bursting emotions invisible to the eyes. They were lovers, got lost somewhere in the way, with loads of bewildering questions that never cease to frighten him, and he was confused. All along.

He grabbed her cold hands but none of theirs got warmer—they shared coldness this time.

“It should be enough. Sometimes it has to be enough.” Was all he managed to say. She looked engulfed with hesitations, yet she returned his grasp. Maybe she tried to believe it, just like he did. Hopefully so.

He whispered, through the following breeze. “Don’t think too much, it’ll kill you. Just feel, and fall.”

She didn’t answer again, but he knew enough, thus a smile grew a bit. And I shall.

***

Buat om om fotografer. Hope you dig it, bro.

[pluieenmars]

ONE - {1/3 Dean}

If he’s not a wild spirit, I don’t know what he’s.  He lives as if he’ll die the next day he wakes up and takes his first breath, colliding with the roughness of life, and dive through it, like an apocalypse swirling towards your whirlwind-like pupils, soaring to the dawn like a mustang galloping by the wind—

“What are you thinking about?”

His voice croaks; his voice has always been like that, scratchy, bumpy, vibrating, lingering. If it’s not a pack of cigarette every single day within his worn-out jeans pockets, or a good old cigar, or neither—just him and his croaky voice, but he’ll always find a way to fetch a cigarette or two.

And he looks at me, with his sophistication and gigantic curiosity lying beneath his eyes, and suddenly I’m beyond where I put my feet on.

“Come here, got something to show ya.”

And then I sit beside his figure—muscular enough to pull reins on top of wild horses, frail enough to paint out his past on a canvas with acrylic and brushes. He’s just like that. His eyebags shadowing his pointy cheekbones as his brims moving.

He shows me a tale of a bird with a broken wing, owned by a broken little boy. I look up to the title, it says “Des Âmes Brisées”. No author, just a brief, murky story about a boy who found a little bird. He tells me to read it, so I read it all the way, enouncing every crippled syllables, every trembling meanings. He pulls out his green lime lighter, and his pale cigarette, creating thin vapors engulfing the entire room. After a while, he starts fingering the piano tuts and making a rhyme, melody, rows of blistering emotions. I’m about to stop but he only shakes his head as he smokes and crafting tunes, so I keep reading.

And when I cough out of the thin smoke, he simply chuckles but doesn’t put out his cigarette. We keep descending to the dawn, until the last line of the tale enters.

(pic source: google)

[pluieenmars]

*2 - G h o s t

It was a rainy month, for the third time. She had been counting, clumsily striking a line in every calendar’s box every year, every month. Third year. Yet she still couldn’t figure out why she should cared anymore. First Sunday. She spent the rest of the day baking cookies, then two minutes of peaceful tea time with some decent books, the clock was ticking and crawling at the same time. She never knew was it her who keep dragging the day off of it’s hook, or was it the time. If she could feel almost none, then maybe it was what she had been desiring and struggling to grasp. The cookies were a bit overcooked, with blackened spots here and there she almost mistook it as the sprinkles and chocochips but the burnt scent told her otherwise. She tried to get a nice, warm slumber in between the threshing of heavy rain, and wild stormy clouds billowing around the tiny house, the tiny world she had formed all over again. She was almost alone considering the fact that her parents worshipped their jobs much more than the average parents would be, and it had it’s perks, like scattered used kitchen utensils, procrastinating concerning dirty plates, et cetera. But it most definitely held all the bad things at once, like the relentless brainstorming that constantly hammering her almost firm fortress. She kept herself busy to fill the empty gaps—sweeping the floor, lurking between the bookshelves, another sweeping the floor, learning the cracks on the wall, painting, avoiding any forms of writing, singing off-key and on, the order wasn’t always like that. Because once she rested for a bit, someone was ready to appear and always on the verge to claim her once more, she knew it better. The darkened eyebags and the evident hollow cheeks were often speaking much more than the words could do. She could never not being dramatic about those lurking shadows—sometime she was choked by memories and she gasped for air. “Why haven’t you gone home?” Her mother once asked, the second Sunday of the rainy month. Rain was being generous enough to allow her tracing the street with her worn out sneakers and thick hoodie in the early morning, some flower were starting to bloom and flourish out of nowhere, but she lamented those newborn flowers. They’d have been dead again by the time the next hurricane arrived, and she was silent for a moment longer, staring at nothing but the blossom. Her mother question had bewildered her for a second longer, her fingernails were polished with brown stains of brownies, she didn’t seem to care enough. “What do you mean, Ma, I am home.” She coughed because the weather had been shabby and even her Dad was starting to catch a cold. “I gotta finish the brownies, or else the taste would be anything but yummy.” I tried to point my smile at her and she smiled a bit back. _ _ _ _ She blamed the scrapbook. Sometimes, you were born petulant, or you were only cranky at some particular points, and some people go breakdown in tears whenever the rage was piling up too much it suffocated their heads, their blood vessels, their stomachs, their hands started to tremble and she could barely think. She had cried in silence at 2 A.M., and she knew she just [had] to call her therapist—her parents had been oblivious to it. So she called and her therapist’s words echoed inside her head for the next six, seven hours. – “Every one has their own limit of strength, and maybe yours is just about this heartbreak, but then it’s your decision to expand your limits or just get stuck right there, for no one knows how long. You can’t lose your demons, honey, you can only learn how to live above them.” The third Sunday of the month, she learned to stop drawing lines with red marker on the calendar, she decided to pack the previous calendars into a medium sized box and was ready to dump it all. The scrapbook smelled of memories, strong stench of the days behind and the particular someone who kept lurking behind her without her noticing. Somehow, she wanted to just befriend the shadow instead of spending her years cultivating a pointless resentment. Hatred is only eating you alive through your bones and flesh, to the extent that you feel like dying and not entirely living. Some nights, she reminisced the way he greeted her for the first time and those sugar coated words whispered in the gloomy nights. They had met, in the middle of summer, two years prior. “Hey, do I know you?” “We... were in the same group?” “Crap. Sorry. Yes, how—how are you?” They started with question marks sprawling in the end of those tiny sentences, awkward smiles and stammering speeches, and the days stampede like a herd of elephants, and she remembered how he had made her smile much brighter than before and showed her bunch of flourishing emotions. Of course, of course what they possessed was astounding and mesmerizing. She woke up alarmed. Her fingers had been trembling until she barked a cough and fetched a glass of water. She always woke up whenever the nightmare was getting to an end, it never let her finish. _ _ _ “Why don’t you just go out? Go somewhere with your friends, you’ve been around at home far too long.” Her mother was like a common mother, who’d get into her nerves because her daughter didn’t look content enough or colorful enough. She wouldn’t blame her; she had felt a bit dull and grayish about herself. “I have. I’m tired, Ma, how many times I’ve to tell you—” “Or why don’t you just. You know,” She was choosing words, “go back, even though the summer holiday isn’t over yet—” “Ma!” I’ve got it. I’ve finally reached the peak—the summit of my stalwart mountain, the pit of my chasm. It suddenly seemed as if the world had been stop moving and also her, and her mother, and her emotions, and her damned past lives and lovers, and she was a frail one, she was the lost one—and that moment hit her like a freight train, so hard, immensely painful and she turned the saucer she held into shards of broken ceramics. “I CAN’T, I can’t, it’s too painful and stop ordering me around, for God’s sake!” She ran, once again dodging from the ghosts from her past, from his fake laced words, from the whispers beneath. She didn’t know—maybe it was her final breakdown, maybe it was the leak of her dam, the water was finally breaking through the plastered cracks, nothing could barely contain it anymore. She stopped somewhere, in the meadow near the house’s backyard, silencing herself, muting the world. And she cried, in a total silence, she heard none. She might had clawed the dirt, because amongst the horrid muted noises, she smelled of blood and soil. She refused. She refused to be played by the shadows. The gauntlet emerging from her past lover—nothing particular, nothing out of common, only a piece of her that had been robbed away with no previous warnings, because nothing mattered more than sharing a piece of you but then they took it away with no guilt. It was not about her and the lover, or how cheesy love storylines ended, it had been all about her and herself all along, and she hadn’t noticed until that moment. The clouds started to assemble, gushes of cold wind cramming her lungs—it was about to rain. And she would let her ghosts get washed away with the rain too. _ _ _ That night she met the ghost once more—the ones with black surroundings encircling, hands were ever so gentle, persuading herself to the past lives. She remembered how he said "love, love, love" affectionately to her ears, and it wasn’t her fault that she admitted those, she succumbed and she approved. Then maybe, he was whispering it, right at that moment, to another girl, another name, another body she could never make out. The thoughts, however, easened up her pain. She faced the shadows. They were about to fade out, the glimmer of worn out candle almost vanished when she reached out, and grabbed it back—the moving haunting shadow she had feared, she would never, NEVER, going to go back to the old her, filling gaps with voiceless movements and dead soul. She had had enough. The shadow before her struggled, forcing it’s shivering arms off of her grip, cursing her loudly. She stood still, pulling forcefully, clambering to her bed. The candle lightened up the face. Her mouth gaped, she could never arrange the words. The shadow was her. Herself. She screamed at the real her, in excruciating pain, rendered her speechless and by the time she blinked, she shouted back: “I let go. I let it all go.” She hadn’t realized there were also real tears flowing down her cheeks, a catapult storming her stance. When it all turned into a silence, the night had felt lighter and easier, although she was still trembling. She let herself go, after a while of restraining herself entirely, imprisoned by the memories, letting all those mockings and snide remarks, letting her hatred towards someone she once loved dearly, she must not hate. And she breathed in a bit. Maybe Mama was right. This was probably not her only home anymore. Maybe where the past and the memories that laid down, that was home too. And all the while she had been rejecting her past, [herself] from encountering her real inner peace. Sometimes, the only escape from those demons is coming back to the demons themselves. That way, you could eventually rescue yourself and that's what matters. Suddenly, after all this time, she was ready to come h o m e. ------ Kepada: Mbak Zaragila Isi: Kalo baper, pegangan. Kalo ngga, hamdalah.

#ghost #philosophy #past #live #love #pain #demon

[pluieenmars]

You’ll still be beautiful

[pluieenmars]

*1 - The Explosion

—.- She is just a foggy depiction of a catastrophe, blistering thunderstorms and fiery mind, wild soul and fearless ego. But none of it seems sufficient enough to burn and clash the world, so mostly, she drowns herself in nothingness. -.—

She finally thinks that in all formalities, society is finally admitting she by all the names of law is finally not underaged and legal. Not that she's been an adult since God knows when, two or three, four years prior. The desire to celebrate anything festive and extravagant seems has died down many decades ago.

She's done doing all the shits of math, she barely can't recognize the vivid reflection of a not-too-skinny girl in front of her, but her shoulder blades are too popping out like nothing else and she knows she may need to eat a little more.

The whole universe beneath your eyes! Someone once was conscious—but she was convinced it was more like drunk—enough to tell her those enthralling words to her face. But she wasn't swallowing right. She was choked. Oh, she was shot all the while, right through the windpipe.

But she misses that voice, everything has been dead since a long time ago when she can find no home in her so-called home, but the voice has long gone and all is more dead down and above here. The other her is staring sharply, unwavered even when she is about to crash the mirror down. She believes that everything is there to be brought down—

"You are a grown up lady, aren't you." She doesn't flinch when abruptly a figure resurfaces out of nowhere, nearing her own oblivion. He revoices his voice. His eyes are still the same, the same eyes that cradled her presence ever so gently. She almost forget how often she smokes, how often they used to smoke under the slow gazes of the earliest dawn, to the deep glares of the latest night. He smokes now, when he said he'd stop.

"I forget how fragile you can be." How she despises of being considered as one, but she doesn't respond. His smile is lethal, as he blows out the smoke.

"I don't smoke anymore, it's you who smoke still, and you should stop. You should stop doing things that will eventually kill you, killing you from the outside and inside." His voice drifts too far, she cracks. Her fortress is tumbling down too hard, and she barely can grasp her frail stability back, she throws his illusion anything she can grab within her reach.

He's gone, he's merely a wrecked delusion of her own endless confusion.

"You LEFT and you can't just pop up and tell me the fucks that I can or can not do!" She clamors, tosses a thing and he dodges. Before she can spit further, he's already by her side, risking to be caught but he eyes her in wordless grief. She explodes. The tears are so cold her corpse is constantly shivering, and her mind is numb.

"I left because it was what it was, and my absence must not be your nightmare, because I'm just a name with memories that came by to accompany you, but you have never been alone. You just think that you are, all the time, all the time." He whispers, piercing through her skin and murky mood, and she can't stop crying for now.

"I am dead. I have been dead." Her fingers reach up to touch his, but she only touches air, and wind flailing around. He puts out his still long enough cigarette, dumps it towards his feet and stomps on it too hard with the soles of his shoes.

"But your dreams don't want to be dead yet, don't want to be buried yet," he replies. He chuckles. "You're a grown up lady, now, take care of your dreams and you are slowly going back to life, you live and you just happily live, just happy enough to live, nothing else."

But when he surges forward he can gather her into a deep embrace, she is too stunned either by his real presence of delusion, or his blatant words. She wants to believe. She really wants to. And when he caresses her crumpled hair, he sounds so real.

"Don't die, don't die yet, fix yourself, fix your dreams. You got so much. You just forget to take a good care of what you got so often that you keep forgetting about yourself too. Damn, stop it."

She sobs in no dramatic term, and she gets a hold of herself just for a second; she can only break in his presence and it happens so quick.

"But be real."

He nods. "I am real. I'm real in your memories."

He makes gestures as if he's about to give her some farewell speeches, makes an exit and she is not ready -- she never was. But he will leave anyway because it is what it is, and farewells are just like that, tormenting and pleasing.

"Just remember to live and remember y o u. You have so much of power, and beauty, use it greatly." She wants to believe it, she really want to, but she doesn't know when will she start to accept the good, nice spoken things about her.

His last words are more soft. "Oh. And happy birthday, you little witch."

•• Another crappy-written gift. Have a blast year, bitj!

#FFThreeWords

[pluieenmars]

She crawls out of a hole, a wound again gets wet when it's not entirely dried yet, and she curses every time the pain relapses. She's sitting now, blankly staring through the thin air, at her new friend. A perfect twin of hers, with all a perfect resemblance, except that her friend possesses such bleak, sorrowful eyes and she has never seen eyeballs so deep like a black hole sucking the life and warmth out of you. "Hello. Hello." Her friend's voice is horrid and dark, sending goose bumps upon her skin, like a call of death. She is muted. Something is—some things are—hollow in her, and she can swear she can feel gushes of wind breathes in and out through it. "I heard he doesn't love you. I heard he is another girl's man too. And I heard you get hurt a few." Her friend continues. Barely trying to understand. She flinches, biting down her chapped lips, legs slightly trembling. Is she dead? Why are they surrounded with darkness? Is this a nightmare? She's doubting everything. Her friend smiles, but it certainly doesn't look like a smile, it's something else and she can't name it—it's nonexistent. It's only a gesture of curving lips and more. It doesn't touch her eyes. Her lips, not like her friend's, feel like been sewn shut, she can't speak. //He tells me love everyday and all the baby, gentle things to me—// "And so he does to his other lovers." Her friend responds, she hears her words. The words she whispers inside her mind and rebellious heart. And her friend responds. She is not prepared however, when a figure appears strolling out from the darkness into the dim light, standing stiffly and deadly in between them. Him; in all ways that she can remember and mention about, his scruffy jaw, his cheerful eyes, his mysterious past, his gentle but outward words, his cursings, his lovely, dreamy works, his presence and his—his— He seems too pale and weary. Her friend shoots her a look. "Your lover isn't wrong and right either. He is just him. And if he sex up other girls too, it's because it's him." The theory sounds broken and worn out. It sounds downright stupid and she tries to muffle her herself—, but she can absolutely do nothing except for thinking and feeling. She has never been this helpless but somehow, she's too hypnotized to actually think a way out. //But I need loyalty. I need a real assurance. Screw it—// "I forget how naive you are. You are me. I am you. And he is just someone else, you accept and be proud of, and people know how you two be." Her friend stands up so flawlessly. "Honey. Honey. It's all fun and games. Don't get too caught up, it's all fun and games. And everyone's gonna get hurt, that's just how we play it." He doesn't speak a thing, and she nearly wants to pull her hair out, beyond this extreme delusion, she just wants her rights to be fulfilled and her obligations to be done well, it's not that hard to do! It takes no effort as she will continuously pour him her love, and when he makes a mistake she will forgive him when he's on his knees, and when he whispers the lullabies and fondly caressing her strands of hair when she is too knackered to ask him questions. It has been just as good as that! They were as unsure as the quick feelings that caught them in a rush, and they almost made it. At least that's what has been nesting in her mind. And for the first time, she's uncertain of the uncertainties and she trembles out of fear. "And my, if you choose to settle, it's fine, it's fine; but you will trust his words whether they are true or not." Her friend sneaks behind him, splaying her dainty fingers on his broad chest, on his arms, down his neck, passing his lips, trailing her fingers. Her friend—herself—is all over him and she is all over him. But he smirks and the appearance of itself seems scathing and creepy. Is she afraid of him now? "You will take care of him in too much fondness, when he really only needs a company. He will think of you as enough as your insecurities but you honestly will never be enough for a love like this." He bleeds, through his invisible ribs, the wounds are so fresh she almost pukes. The blood, spilling from his eyes, through his nostrils, exiting from his ear holes. "It's just a wild love, wild feeling, and you should never get too attached for this. He is just out to wild around, and you must never cage down a wild one. For it will only get wilder than ever. Take care of him, honey, but don't love him, don't." She screams when his presence explodes and shatters, like every piece of her, and she is trampled in unerring, bottomless doubtness, questioning her life, trust and worth. And it all will never be just enough— •• A cursed, catastrophic, gift for my lovely, bestest friend in both delusion and real-realm. Keywords in tags ❤ picture credit: Instagram

#loyalty #not enough

[pluieenmars]

On dit souvent qu'avec le temps on s'habitue, on oublie. Mais on parle pas assez de ceux qui oublient pas, malgré les années qui passent.

@alencredemaplumee (via alencredemaplumee)

[pluieenmars]

C'était le genre de fille qui se foutait vraiment de tout, de toute façon elle se relevait toujours quand elle était à genoux.

@texthuman sur Instagram (via texthuman)

[pluieenmars]

Jfais la dure, l'intouchable, l'insociable. Mon coeur est fermé à double tour, mais au fond jsuis qu'une gamine qu'à besoin d'amour.

@insociablementcompliquee (via insociablementcompliquee)

C'est moi, c'est compliqué mais c'est moi.