I Want John Hughes to Direct My Life

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Am I the only one who thinks this world just go around in the same circle? I mean not in geographical way. In a definition of common sense kind of way. Take fashion for example, I think classic style with buttoned up shirt, high waisted trousers and satchel bags are in again now. Probably in the next ten years society would wear neon tights, roller blade and headband all over again -- but that is not my point. Over the weekend I watched several films from 1980s. And I cannot help to have a little bit talk about it; better than I have nothing to say with my mundane English university life.

The Breakfast Club. I always have certain amazement towards one-setting movie. This movie basically set in the library and that's that. Thus, the quality relies on the script. And I'd say The Breakfast Club nailed it. Sentimental conversations are slip here and there. Can't Buy Me Love. That skinny guy is Derek Sheperd now. The McDreamy. His innocence almost made me hit my laptop screen. Anyhow, who would have thought riding a lawn mower could have any potential relativity with romance at all? Lots of credits goes for that. Say Anything. Ah, do I have to explain John Cusak? He is the absolute king of romance screenplay.  If I ever make a romance movie, John Cusak would always be my first call. Oh and that parka/trench coat could not look better on anyone else but him and Judd Nelson.

In certain way, the audience could guess what is going to happen, or there are few scenes/lines that just does not really makes a good sense; but however, those little bits of quirkiness and predictable plot are meant to be there and that what makes eighties films are so sweet and genuine. They are so simple beyond compare yet it represents a lot; the beauty, the message and the goofs. I am not saying recent movies are awful. It's just, there is something about 80s movies that bound me in awe.

Oh thy love, I shall sink to the bottom of your existence.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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Long Distance Runner

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I do not need to swear for the coldness of autumn has striking leaf by leaf fallen out of the humble trees. It is about time to let go, whispered the tree. While the wind is always there. Being its person in a way of helping the trees to let go, at least slightly easier. Though inside, there is this private war going on in controversy. The trees are not in favour just yet to let it go away. But honestly, they are secretly aware, yet is never going to be over if there is nothing that pressing. Regardless the nature's demanding behaviour, trees are still standing tall although the impression of vulnerability vividly projected. For a while, again, the tree whispered. And when it's time, the snow will cover them in sweet mercy, then, by no time, leaves will start to grow green. Again.

It is a good thing that you are not a tree. Feel free to let go any time you want if you choose to live in the past instead of now. But you will be eventually.

It is a good thing if you are like the tree. At least, there is this wind pushing you in absolute certainty to let it go. Giving you no time or space to second guess.

Do you know that the innocence of simple mind can slowly fade away day by day, books by books and breath by breath? Happiness that ought to be so close, feels so far, distant and strange -- questioning whether or not it is an illusion. The remaining voice of modesty however singing for its longing of solid faith and at the same time locking my thoughts by the ground. Not still but actively moving. Wandering. I give time for everything. Everything. Hence, every sigh is full of awareness of both sides. This is bad, but I keep on going. In silence of pretentiously sham smile, I play. Hoping a breath of fresh air might swing by, and stay, any time soon. And when it's time, I'll be able to hit you in gratitude that you are present before my eyes.

Now, I live for the words. For the story. For the pseudo existence of you and me.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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The Unsaid Things

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I could not recall how it began. How I fell in love; maybe it was his hair or maybe his flawless jawbones. His dirty jokes. His undying charisma. His stupid voice and accent. His talent. But he was so much more. All of us, I am sure, share the same para-social relationship with one public figure at some point. I never tried to acknowledge how a strange man from strange land could interest me in the most irrelevant way of inspiring such greatness in one bit of my life. Music. Bass. He may not know this. He may know that he is loved, admired -- by thousand, million girls all over the world. But he did not fully comprehend; especially during his period when he hit the rock bottom. He did not know that he is truly loved. He knows. But he did not really know. He should, you see. That is why I am writing this. In a million chance he might or might not read this. But he has the right to know that his life means a lot more that what he sees for himself. His life means more, to me. To his fans. It was beyond words when I heard he tried to commit suicide. I thought he was perfect. I thought he was alright. I thought I could see through 140 characters of writing. But I was wrong. Nevertheless, his decision which got him this far; safe, secure and sound, was his best work. He should be proud, he should be happy. Because I am. Or on behalf of his other fans, we are proud. I love him without knowing he knows my name in person.

I have met him once, face to face, and it was one of the best day in my life. He is dangerous in a way because he has that kind of crucial power within his grip, making the best day of someone's life, without entirely know he has it. Oh boy.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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