The Past

It's Twenty Seconds 'til the Last Call

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Every time, I read anything online, every post trying to tell me that you are alright. You are under this, some sort of umbrella that keeps you from anything; Telling you are safe from anything, everything; the slightest pain after you are having your first hangover in a while. As if you are alright. As if everything is the same. As if you can get what you had a thousand months ago. But my friend, you are not. Everything is not the same. Everything has changed. And you are the one who need to notice that. Not him, or her. What you drink, and swallow, are a complete different era. You have learned to get through the sticky grovel. The unwanted pebbles that keeps you away from walking straight. But you still able to walk straight... A little. You learn how to manage to walk home straight, safe and sound, alone. You are a survivor. You would try your best to show you are alright. Fine as pair a of apple that keeps you away from Doctor. But you are as doomed as the stale, out of date ripe apple on the Tesco's fresh fruit display.

I would pretend everything is alright. I would, if I could. Everything is fine. As I stand quite at the end of the corner, doing nothing but wishing, you and everyone I consider as the loved ones, are safe, blessed and happy. Because everyone is doing alright but me -- in the meantime, I feel nothing close but with emptiness. Nothing could feel me in. Even though bottles of wine and high fives are flowing through my presence, but that happens not for my sake. That, happens for the good time sake. And I am not there. I am in between of trying and being present. I am waiting. And waiting. Series of episodes build me into nothing but wonder. Wonder that hardly exist. Hence, I am hardly exist. I thought I would've easily exist in the land I have been praising in my entire life, but I was wrong. It did not last long. Reality was trying to crushed me into a million pieces, making me doubt the least thing I would have imagined to ever doubt in my life. But then again, growing up means watching my heroes turn human in front of me (Sadega, D. 2012). Everything becomes real. Then, you could have not decide whether this is what you want or what you are hoping or much more than that. This, is the real deal.

This, is the real shit. Get out of here, or your soul would die, slowly but it's there, happening. It used to be easy, you know. To write. But I lost count how I get here, on the land of strange feeling. Unfamiliar. The one that used to not linger, now stays longer. Whilst, butterflies and racing heartbeat went missing. Days are static as if it was the line showed on the monitor of a brain-dead patient. Grey's Anatomy and Bon Iver are the only two things that might've keep me awake. Sober and alive. Oh, and you, maybe. Pretty much. I thought as I get older every second, every day, every week, the idea of dream and goal could get brighter, vivid, unambiguous. But I was not sure anymore. The hill I thought I have passed, starts to show again at the end of my view. Changing my mind about almost, almost everything. The land used to have nothing but sex appeal, become this sort of bland, that keeps me curious -- both in a good and the worst way. Because all I could see was his eyes -- his brown eyes, Switzerland Chocolate eyes; not too light as it delivered a soft touch every time he glance. Underneath his weird, stupid glasses. Then the world stopped and melt with me. As if, everything is real. As if your feeling is real; no assumption.

I'll be okay.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz

If You're Still Bleeding, You're the Lucky Ones.

The worst part is the minute you think you're past it, it starts all over again.
(Grey, M. 2009)

It's September. Leaf starts to turn orange, worn-out orange. Soon all going to fall off, unwanted. Shrill noises from bicycle's horn trying to dismiss the eager crowds craving for sun becomes infrequent, no more throwing balls, stripes rugs or blowing bubbles. Hands are now hiding underneath oversize jumper and the sun hides behind the pale grey cloud. Standing by the quiet autumn river never felt very sound, as if it sleeps, whilst tall buildings at the back looking weary. No, not because of the fading paint by the wall but simply because it looks bland. Nothing stands out to guard the fragile view. Often, the wind sweep the leaf-less branch, forcing them to dance. A slow dance; a waltz in the middle of autumn.

It's September. Wind does not help me to clear the dust and doubts in my head. Judgement, certainty and patience are altogether wearing thin. And the surroundings give nothing to hold on to. It's cold. Afraid one tiniest and smallest movement might danger the entire existence of my will to stand and simply survive. It's too cold, I might break. The utmost passion drive me far, far up to space, suddenly gone missing. I can't breathe. I can't write. I can't tell. Rush of frigid air suffocates my throat with questions. Countless thoughts are clouding up my mind, all messy and tangled, but instead of gasping for deep breath, I bit my tongue and running in circle.

It's September. A teardrop of rain fall onto my cheek. I glance up to the sky, wondering. I thought I should stop fighting. I thought I should take the easy road. Ignoring the journey, let alone the destination. But no, I am staying. I know you will come from afar, from that little bridge across the river, and hold my hand. Replacing this shabby jumper. And I don't have to feel cold anymore. This hope, this will, tiny little will, is enough for a start. You know what they say, it's not about waiting the storm to pass, it's about dancing in the rain.

It's September. Your birthday is around the corner. and the toughest Summer yet is finally over.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz