The Past

Here, Again


I have got to say that New Year is a slightly better version of birthday because 1) everybody celebrates, so imagine the whole world is drinking with you, raising the glass or any other kind for a toast to better days to come 2) it is far more concrete and obvious as the number of year changed on printed or digital calendar, we would be constantly and universally reminded that it is the new year, and you are not getting any younger; this is it, the time for you to do things you have been wanting, waiting to do. Or at least, to take a step closer.

As per usual, new year is always a good time to see things retrospectively of what you have or have not learned over the period of 365 days. This is perhaps the only time that looking back can have some sort of beneficial aspect rather than dragging me into a melancholy nostalgia abyss. Although, it is hard to believe that it has been a year since the last post of how I spent the last day of 2013 by the Bournemouth Pier. Now, another cheesy gratitude post marking the last day of the year is here, again.

To begin, it's funny how I have always wanted to say that this past two years has been "maturity" years for me, where I believe I have gained so many experiences that I can learn, or at least understand, out of it. Maturity also in the sense that I am slowly able to say I am ready to make sense of the non-sense of this world little by little. That each year, I am becoming less and less afraid of tomorrow. Still scared, but less. And in the strangest sense, I am actually looking forward for the next second, days, months from now.

Okay, so.

The greatest thing about 2014 was definitely the Summer. I spent the whole summer in England since I thought it would be best to do my internships here instead of at home and yes, it was one of the best decisions I have made. You should have seen Bournemouth beach in the Summer, I swear it was beautiful. And London, too. Nevertheless, it was not just the pretty English view, but the people I got to work with were such inspirations - the kids and fellow practitioners in Haringey, the Bournemouth Emerging Art Festival team. They, even though we met only as brief as the sunny season, had shaped me into a better person and keep that burning candle of passion in me to stay lighted.

I had shitty days, too. Which I suppose what made the good days were worth to feel for. There were days where I cried harder than a baby, days where I wished I could have done better or at least, could have done something. There were other decisions that I thought was stupid, hell, perhaps there were more small decisions that I thought was a mistake - mostly in relationships, but one leap of good news, I managed to let go and move on from someone that I had been struggling to forget over the past one year and a half and it felt great. And fortunately, I have had the pleasure to meet other attractive individuals that were not less than unique and beautiful and had brief adventures in first date raced heartbeats, Brooklyn and long nights.

What I also have learned, I am terrible keeping up with list of resolutions. I figure it may be best just to state no more than three points in my journal to occasionally check just in case if life is getting off the tangent. Or maybe, just one line - create stories as many as possible. I realised that 2015 will the last official year I have left to spend in Bournemouth (fingers crossed) and I'd only be twenty two in England once, so, everything is rather self-explanatory. Although, I must say this give me tingly mixed feelings. On one hand, I would like to freak out and weep knowing I am counting down the days waking up ten minutes away from British coast, but on the other hand, I feel it is time for new adventure.

Ah. This makes me feel giddy.

However, I shall end this post with a playlist of Wish I Was Here soundtrack for you to listen and enjoy for the next hour or so. You could try to write your own retrospective of how 2014 had been for you, too, if you please. I genuinely hope you had an amazing year, give yourself a pat on the back for getting through this year and may you have even better year in 2015. 'Cause trust me, you will.

Here's to a great year ahead. I shall see you next year!

A piece by : Fiya Muiz

For Him, Beach House by Thirty

For him, beach house by 30

I used to love the idea of loving him, so dearly to the core of my organs. Beating like a heart, natural and simple, like breathing. I used to admire the idea of him, of us: two people that have not seen each other in a very long time but thought of each other in between the time difference and geographical sequence. The way words were flown easy in safe distant conversations,  hopes and dreams of having a beach house by the time he turns thirty, shaping an almost perfect prose for a poetry. A story of him and me: all the way from the swings when we barely be, small hands and lousy hair cuts to adulthood - coffee shops and cinema seats. I used to love how pretty the idea of him, like a daydream, 'til his mouth flutters the dirtiest words that even brush unable to clean, because there is no dust, only lust. Now everything is like the wind that sends shiver between my thighs. Drop of water on a golden-coated pipe, wet, inches away from corrosion. I now no longer sure to love the idea of him, as the innocence of make-believe upon the gentleness of his great self melted along with his sweat, my sweat, and panting breath. All the child-like smile has rested in peace as the ravens claim all there is, is just fuck to give.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz

The Safest Place

Have you ever felt this kind of feeling where everything is at peace, so serene and balanced, you do not want it to end so it feels like you have to run as fast as you could, somewhere to keep it safe, because it feels as if it is slowly slipping away like sand between the gap of your fingers? You want it to stay, a little bit longer, longer than now or forever. You have to run somewhere, if you could know a place where you can keep whatever this is, safe. Safer than locks. Then, you would think the safest place is here. Not under your bed or your memory, but here, in words. The safest, closest place you can think of is in writing, cause you might forget elsewhere. But by the time the space bar stops and blinks, the curves of alphabets stand still in line, the moment's gone. The feeling has gone. All that is left is hope, when you come back, you would still remember how it feels. Just like water that you can never hold, only to be seen and touched.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz

Best of 2014: The Other Side of Heartbreak is Wisdom

Best film, artist and book of 2014.

Maybe this movie catches me in my fragile mood, but boy, I enjoyed this film thoroughly. I had to watch it twice two days in a row just to double check whether what I felt was right. This film reminds me that I would be a terrible film critic because as much as I wanted to be critical, I would not be able to set aside my own opinion of how I felt towards the film I loved personally. Wish I Was Here covers the all kinds of complex and complicated yet intimate family relationship through real-life situation issues - father and son, in laws, siblings, death and dreams. I always thought film that has the element of death is cheating the audience and other films because everything that relates to it, would always be sentimental and tear-jerker. And I often set the bar of a great film through whether or not it plays with my emotions and make me cry. And this film surely did make me cry harder than a baby.

Wish I Was Here is definitely a winner of both, in every aspects. The only concern surfaced when I watched Garden State afterwards, Zach Braff's previously directed film in 2004, there were many factors even the way the scene was shot resembled the Garden State's exterior content, which lessened the idea of Wish I Was Here originality. However, Wish I Was Here definitely in a much more matured version, far less cheesy dialogues that in my opinion hit me on the head, or heart for this matter. There were so many lines I would like to note down and put it up as a screen saver - one of it was the title of this post. I again, personally hate to discover film that is so good too late - it's never too late though, but the sooner I know I would feel better. So, in my humblest opinion, I recommend you to go ahead and see this film if you haven't, I wish you would find it as joyful as I did. 

Hozier - Hozier (2014)

You know, that kind of feeling where sometimes when you find a new artist that is so good you kind of wish that you could keep him all for yourself, but at the same time you would want the world to know how great he is so you are kind of perplexed and unsure how to take this whole mesmerising moment. This kind of how I find Hozier. I, or everybody, can tell that he is on his way to the highway of fame as an instance, he just was invited to perform in Victoria Secret's London show. His single Take Me To Church is being played everywhere - radios, even hip youngsters shop such as Topshop and Urban Outfitters, which may come across overrated to certain extent but honestly those who cannot see beyond the lover's humour, definitely going to miss a lot. I actually discovered more of his god gracious-given talent in his other songs such as From Eden and Work Song. I'd have to say he is the best artist of 2014 'cause his songs works just as magical as a cup of tea at home after a long, tiring day. 

I found this book randomly at a secondhand bookshop in Boscombe that I fell in love immediately since the moment I walked in. And it brought me to Ethan Hawke's debut novel, The Hottest State, so this must be fate. This book was published in 1996, but I just read it this Fall. So, I'd still count it as one of the best books I read in 2014. Regardless, Ethan Hawke is another actor that just surprised me with his multi talents as if he wants to intimidate every soul in this planet not just with his piercing blue eyes, but with his words, too. The story of the book is fairly simple, when a young man in his 20s falls helplessly and passionately in love with a woman. There is not particular major life events or drama plotted throughout the book, but in its simplicity lies the beauty of honest feelings, as if the readers can also feel the young burning love the main character is feeling. This book would definitely be a good company for a light reading on a train or coach journey. 
A piece by : Fiya Muiz

The Second Love

Everyone always remember their first love, how naive or beautiful, or hurtful it was. But little did they know, first love is a prototype, an unshaped clay that it still far from perfect. Of course, a different kind of perfect. The more mature, rich kind of love starts to develop on the second love -

Did you remember how was your second love looked like? Mine was an awkward tall boy with black framed glasses and braces. Someone that I would have not thought even perhaps in my seventeen year old wildest dream to fall head over heels with. But boy, the unexpected ones are always the greatest kind.

His name was Toby, the typical far too laid back almost to the extent of an acute laziness boy that sat next to me throughout my senior year in high school. As being a part of the socially-driven teenage groups, I listened to rumors as if it was the soundtrack of teenage life drama. I did not have the best first impression of him without particularly understand why. After his absence on the first week of 11th Grade, each day, slowly he proven me wrong that he was not as terrible as I, or the rest of the people, thought he would be.

Frequent interactions in pair or group discussion led to small conversations that turned into a snowball. One day, I found him alone in class, eyes focused on his phone while the rest of the class were having lunch break. I had not seen him so captivated on something as if it was a pot of gold. "What's so interesting?" I asked to fill in the rough sound of heavy rain from the outside. He looked up from his phone, mending his glasses that slightly slide off his flat nose. It turned out that he was observing a photo of his then-current crush with eyes beaming in young love.

Time stretched and nobody was back from the break just yet, we had the room for ourselves and our conversation carried on into the glittering future that then seemed so promising. He told me that he would consider to marry her when he is ready - this, bearing in mind, coming from someone that was barely seventeen. My farthest worry then would be getting through the long winding third period of sociology class and he already thought of someone that he would like to marry.

I was immensely surprised and impressed, that was perhaps the first stepping stone into a whole lot deeper affection-building in the following months that I had no clue I would ever, developed towards him. It was funny wasn't it, I began to grow fond of him through his way of admiring other girl. I could not decide whether this ironic or I was plainly a fool. Somehow, our circle of friends grew closer and overlapped, we often hang out with mutual friends in so many occasions over the weekend and after school, which meant more time I got to observe him more in small things that made me come to realisation that he could be the guy I wanted to marry.

But as any of my kind of story, the twist came along soon after I difficultly admitted to myself that I was indeed, falling for him. He had to leave the city - not just the city, but the country, with twelve hours difference, for undetermined period of time. Had was not the right word, he wanted to leave the city and pursue his dream to have better future in the States. I was crushed. Even then, crushed was honestly an understatement. Devastated, perhaps. And there was not much that I could do but to feel happy for his bold decision.

Nobody seen it coming. He mentioned it in conversations over moonlit cigarette, but none of us were ever taken it seriously. He did not even tell his friends less than two weeks before his flight. He said wanted to play mysterious, but I knew he just hated goodbye and love to surprise, which even as much as I despised his guts, it was hard not to fall for him more. Soon after his departure, I realised he taught me much greater lesson, that I was never been ever so inspired to strive more in life, that future was not confined in a geographical boundaries, to finally able to see my dream as a plan. I thought, if he could do it, why could not I?

I wish I could tell you more sappy stories how he held my hand and I felt an electrifying current at his fingertips, the way the world stopped when he finally told me that he loved me in return, but it never happened. I fell in love with his stories, the way life shaped him into who he was. An amazing person with a great sense of determination and humour, too. I wished I could tell him these, but it was never the right time and now, it was far too late. All I could say, on the second love I've had, I was taught how to dream big.
A piece by : Fiya Muiz

I Have Seen

I have seen the world - I have seen the world through the eyes of the lost and confused minds, from the lips of half strangers, in the warmth and coldness of seasons, in the nervous giggles of first dates, in the feeling of missing home. I have seen the world through white lies, false hopes and empty promises from the ones you thought never would. At the same time, I have seen the world in the acceptance of unfamiliarity, in the understanding of faux-idealism. I have seen love in the shyness of giving compliments, in little reminder of the little things. I have seen life in quiet sips of cold beers and acoustic guitar, in three a.m decisions. I have seen small death at the end of a relationship when two hands parted, not to be reunited. I've seen beauty in what is flawed, crooked smile and freckles. I've seen ugliness in the perfection. I have seen kindness and gentleness in the arms of tattooed man. I have seen many different and new things these past few years - now I am seeing the world in the way I have never seen before, and it's beautiful.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz

The Fragile Ones: A Playlist

To welcome our dear December and winter winds, I present you five of my personal favourite tracks to cuddle with.

Matt Corby - Winter

Keaton Henson - To Your Health

Chet Faker - No Diggity

Hozier - From Eden

Ry X - Berlin
A piece by : Fiya Muiz

We Were Never in Love, but God, We Could Have Been

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We were never in love, but God, we could have been.
A piece by : Fiya Muiz

Loose Ends

Maybe it is the loose ends that keeps me coming back to you. Maybe it is the gap that I thought there could be stories that could fit in, another chapter, another paragraph or just another sentence. Maybe, I would still like you to hold me two seconds longer, or just another second. Maybe I want you to be mad at me, hate me, or love me, which you never did. Maybe, maybe it is all the what ifs. But also maybe, it is just you. Maybe, it's the curiosity if I never leave the city - if I stay. If I stay, would you still hold my hand?

A piece by : Fiya Muiz

Sit Down With You

I would like to sit down with you, perhaps over a cup of hot green tea freshly brewed at the chained coffee shop with the greatest window display, facing the over populated city. They said New York never sleeps, but have they seen Jakarta? It is never still. There is a constant movement of lights, words as if it was earth.

Again, I would like to sit down with you and have a little conversation. We can start with the days that we have missed, separated different densities of ocean. We can start at small - the way your hair naturally changed into two shades lighter, it is now copper black and you returned the mere observation that my cheek looked few ounce heavier. I said, it was probably the tenderloin steak I had two weekends in a row. I had not been home in years, I had to try every new restaurants in town.

You would laughed and even though you lived two hours drive away from the Capital, you said you have not had the chance to try the new places that the hipsters gone to. We both shared alienated feeling when it comes to the place we were taught as home. Not to the certain extent where we were entirely disconnect with the city, but only seen as someone outside the picture as if we were visitors in a gallery and the city were the painting.

Perhaps, it would be one of the reasons why we get along very well as not many people would share the same abstract concept of home. Through the conversation, soon I would notice that you have changed in the best possible way - it seems that you finally able to let go of whatever that shackles you still and weary. The grey cloud, the gloom that follows you has finally disappear, although it is not exactly all-rainbow now, but I could see the traces of joy appear as your lips curls into this kindest smile.

Then we would realize how naive we were and how did we end up talking about fundamental aspects of life, like religion and God. So subtle, we would laugh at ourselves. What we have seen as sins has shifted. Maybe, the subject of marriage would arise, too. We would have the opposite point of view yet we both know we were hopeless romantic at heart. How did we grow up so fast?

The question would linger until we drive ourselves home, realizing that we have left the phase of naivety and youth. We are (un)fortunately, adults now.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz

Terrible, Terrible Feeling

Few years ago, when the boy I once loved moved to the States, I realized how terrible it felt to be left and to be the one who stayed. One thing led to another, I, too decided to leave Jakarta. I moved to England with all the excitement packed in my luggage, sleeves - everywhere, somehow I thought by moving, I was also leaving the awful feeling of being left. I forgot in every meeting, there will always goodbye at some point. I was not aware, when I built my life in England, I built new relationships that do not meant to last - not in the way it is cheap and weak, but more like there is an expiry date depending on the length of the course. We are all travelers here, alongside with the purpose of studying. This is not home, we are all bound to leave - again, although few may be decided to reclaim England as home - but most of them are not.

Two of my favorite people had to move on with their lives a couple days ago while my chapter here has not finished just yet. I do still have other great friends that keep me from falling, but these two were also part of my days, of the life I have built. Then, the feeling I tried to avoid - the hollowness, the void, the weight of something's missing - is back. I am feeling horrible. Of course I tried to run away. To anything, anyone that is possible. But every time, the waves always keep dragging me back to the sea. This feeling affects the way I see the world gleams, it is not as bright, appealing and exciting as before, in addition with the English wet, gloomy weather. The idea of not having them one phone call away is terrifying. Weekend plans now are just wishes. It's funny how aware I am of this, but I am still letting myself sulking in this terrible, terrible feeling.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz

Poetry Baffles Us Both

Today, I learnt that you are the only source of your happiness -

Image: Keaton Henson
A piece by : Fiya Muiz

A Letter to Love

Dear Love,

I haven’t seen you in a very long while so I’m thinking I might send you a little letter. I hope you are doing well wherever you are. I could not stop thinking about you. I have missed you terribly. We both know I cannot help to stay far as I would always put you on the pedestal. I always speak highly of you – that you are the best kind and everybody has to meet you, at least once because I don’t think they have lived if they haven’t met you yet, even if someone has ever been hurt, I would still insist to tell them to try again and say the only thing that can heal them is you, and only you. 

You have the charm of every opposites, always different – sometimes you can be very warm like the spring sunshine that melts on my skin, but you can be as sharp as shards of glass that cause one to bleed.

That is why sometimes I am terrified of you, because I know that you have the capability to expose me bare to the very core of my vulnerability, as if I was a vampire and you were the sun that agonisingly burns me through my skin onto my bones, unlike the cosmic objects that burn bright and beautifully. You could easily undress me, putting my armour into bed, asleep. That soon I would feel defenceless, helpless and dependent. I am no longer in control nor a whole, to perhaps as if I am a half or a part of something else, a great inexplicable phenomenon – a natural disaster.

Another time, you’d make me feel bulletproof. You can make me come clean with my biggest fear and be the best version of myself. When you're around, I am in peace, content. I don't want to ever leave. You're all everything I wanted to believe in. With your touch, you can turn foolish actions into the only thing that makes sense. You can be incredibly beautiful, too. Have you seen yourself? Your presence enchants the fairest charm as you breathe hope to the melted snow and wilted flowers. You have the scent of the ocean just before the dawn, embodies everyone’s favourite dream.

You can be dangerous – a thief of fragile hearts, addictive as drugs, a spell. You are always a home to the losts, the place where everyone’s keep running back to even if they are trying to run away. You can be a strength and weakness. You can build and you can break. You can grow wings to fly and an anchor to sink. You are blinding, binding – you are everything all at once. To me, you are compass, without you, I would have been lost, perhaps like I am now, turning everything into dust. You are everything I ever talk about.

I’d write a prose of poems, an album of songs about you. I’d put you in the centre of my universe and circle my life around you – but even though I know you can be all the above, I don’t think I know you enough. I would like to know you more, I would like to know you better. Maybe I would be able to figure you out soon, your mysterious, tangled webs of self, and maybe just a little maybe, from there I can let go of the fear that I can’t always have you.

Yours truly,

Your Petite Friend

A piece by : Fiya Muiz

Even After What Had Happened

I want you to walk in to this restaurant right now, where I am having a meal with few of my friends on a rainy Thursday noon. I know this is the place where you like to order Chinese food from when we were together and being lazy under the warm dolphin-patterned blanket that you got from your mum two Christmas ago. 

And when you walk in, I would avert my face away, pretending not to see you while my heart raced so fast it almost fall from my ribcage.

I will hold on for five minutes, pep-talking myself to be harsh. "Fiya, be mean. You can do this." It wasn't a tough break up but I have to be more assertive unlike jellyfish without spine. Over the past months, I have been trying to build this fortress to keep me away from you. Just because I needed to, just because you are still ever so inviting even after what had happened.

But soon I couldn't help to look at you and as our eyes accidentally met, I would melt like lava that slurred down the curves of an exploded mountain to your feet.

And then, I would have to say hi - with the utmost nervous, shivering voice. Right there, with all the failing plans of being stern, I would find myself back to ground zero. And I have to start to forget you all over again.

That's what's going to happen if you walk in to this restaurant now.

I would be a mess but I do still want to see you.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz

Like Everything is Alright

I love the way you make me feel  like I was in love. Like this is how I want love to feel like. Tomorrow does not seem so scary, the past does not feel as bad and now is good. Like I don't need more. Everything is enough. The sound of your voice is the safest haven, where all my worries are flushed, melt to the ground, non-existent. My sins are forgiven and all the bad choices are amendable. Like lone wolf that has finally found its home. Like the night for fireflies. Like,

everything is alright.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz

Loneliness is a Dangerous Thing

Oh dear, I have been trying to write you a story but nothing seems to be good enough. Unfortunately, I have not been able to send you good news. I have just gotten out from a long high and dry relationship and I was caught in a hazy state for quite some time. I merely exist from day to day, places to places. But something happened two Saturdays ago. 

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I met a guy that made me feel everything was not so bad – I suppose if I was terribly miserable I would have not thought of this.

I met him at this postcard-themed pub in town on a charity event in aid for Gaza appeal. We were introduced through a mutual friend that I was working with in a project last summer. You know, it was one of those nights where a simple conversation over a pint of beer caught me off guard.

He radiates the spirit of summer – which I was lack of, as I was definitely a gloomy winter. His presence was so warm and noticeably happy.

He was also infectious, almost like a virus that caught me just in time when my anti-body was asleep. The way he talked and looked at me was full of wonder, as if like he just discovered an alien, and he wanted to know everything about me and my planet. And the weirdest part was I strangely liked it.

I did not quite understand how to explain this strange attraction. He did not strike as someone that I would normally look twice if I walk pass on the street. Not that he was not attractive - he was, in his own way. He was over 6 feet tall, had the hair with the colour of red fox, scruffy beard and a nose ring.

The conversation was okay, too. Nothing burns but there was something about the simplicity of it that I was deeply enjoyed. It might have been just his excellent communication skills, but either way, within the span of less than an hour, I could feel a teeny tiny hope creeps in to the very centre of my rib cage.

However, at the same time, I was not sure whether this illuminating feeling of attraction was real or it was just because I long for a company. Remember when I said I thought hope was a dangerous thing? Now, I am starting to think that loneliness is worse.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz

Remember to Forget

Image and video hosting by TinyPicAt the age of twenty-two, Sophia is starting to forget things. She is - or perhaps was now, remarkably good at remembering things. She thought, if she ever been good at something, it is definitely to remember. She remembers where she put last winter's receipt of jumper she bought in Topshop on the second drawer on her beside table. She remembers she put the loose screw from her shoe rack that she unable to put it back in the red tin where she keeps all her small jewellery and spare buttons. She remembers her best friend, Rosie's mother birthday on the 31st of January. She remembers her local bartender's goldfish name. She used to remember all the littlest things. But yesterday, she forgot whether she had turned off the stove after making her scrambled egg or not. She forgot where she put her favourite raincoat when it was actually raining outside. And this morning, Sophia forgot to close her bathroom window after left it wide open to let the steam out, resulting she had to walk back to her house and late for her first morning lecture of the new term. But nevertheless, she realised one thing today: that after a very long while, she finally forgot that Joe was once meant love to her.
A piece by : Fiya Muiz


The subway from Bank smelled like Friday night – a mixture of alcohol, piss and tube engine waste. I was not complaining. I did not care. I loved it. I was with him. What’s there to be afraid of? Daniel was next to me, with our hands interlock. As we walked through the faded white porcelain ceramic wall, the other late Thursday commuters were just dots. We reached the end of the tunnel and ended up in front of the Bank of England. Maybe majestic was the right word to explain what stood before me. It represented lavish culture and enunciate wealth, prosperity almost to the sense that it made me sick. The pillar stood tall with the perfect amount of dimmed lighting on the ceiling and occasional car’s headlights passing by beaming just about the essence of London, gloriously. Just a little across the street, there was a statue in front of a posh restaurant that I would not even dared to enter wearing ripped black stocking and knitted cardigan, not to mention wet red converse from the puddle I accidentally got into next to the sidewalk in Shoreditch. I looked around, then finally at Daniel that seemed rather laid back seeing what’s in front of us. He took his eyes off the statue and returned to mine, “It’s beautiful.” I was not trying to whisper, but my voice sounded smitten and probably with slightly hazy eyes. His thumb stroke the palm of my hand that still in his and replied, “I know.” He leaned forward and kissed me. I could feel London was immersing in me, in his soft lips, in the background noise of London’s traffic. I felt like I was in a love-drunk fiction book. That moment was very intimate almost I feel I did not want to share it with anybody else. It was mine. It was not even his. Everything was just mine.

But then if I was part of a book, I was afraid there might be a plot twist in the next chapter.

I want the story to end here, where everything is almost perfect. 
A piece by : Fiya Muiz

He Sleeps Like New York City

I cringe on his absence as I miss stroking his well-shaved beard. I miss every time I opened my eyes, I can see him sleeping graciously before me as if every sleep means a thousand dime of golds, as if he was New York City that finally has some time to sleep.

He is even more charming in between his fragile ego when he steeps lower than he should, unaware of his own attractiveness. I would like to tell him I think God created him to start jealousy. But I couldn't. And I think he wouldn't believe me, too.

It gets even harder to let go a piece of beauty, even though it wraps in a cold frisky pale porcelain skin, because it is not just a matter of heart but also a matter of eyes and ego to have him as if he is a string of pearls that would look good around my neck.

That the greatest challenge is when the whiskey-breath night screams for a brief phone call that often end up on a messy sheet. Forgetting that we have ended two autumns ago when the first leaves falls on the ground.

He was so beautiful, he won't let myself to catch a breath.
A piece by : Fiya Muiz

Love More: A Little Too Late

I remember the first time when he asked a question started with do you fancy. We were standing in front of the bus stop as that day for some reason he wanted to walk me to my stop although he lived the opposite direction. As my bus was approaching slowly to a full stop,  suddenly a rainstorm happened in my stomach, it could not be just butterflies. I said yes with a slight shaky voice and agreed to meet him after work tomorrow on a Thursday evening for a drink. Not that I doubted my interest upon him, but more to I knew I was signing myself into trouble only three days away from morning flight calls me home.

By trouble I meant, emotional-trouble. I kept telling myself it was absolutely fine to have a summer fling; although confining a crush into certain term in my opinion just undermined what it actually meant. Daniel was a typical nerd that has this undeniable charm and I was drawn to him. Not just because he was naturally eye-catching with his above average six feet tall height, but he was just funny. Our first interaction was at the office kitchen, as I happened to walk in when he was reading his kindle, waiting for the water to boil. In attempt to avoid awkward silence, I tried to opened up a small talk but as I was a terrible conversation-opener, I had to come up with an awkward topic, "Is that kindle?" I soon regretted that I opened my mouth. But he responded lightly and welcomed with an answer as if we had known each other enough to throw a sarcastic joke, "It is, yeah." He looked down at it, "I'm not the kind of person who reads book because the smell of the pages." I laughed, though it was not funny, but I liked him already.

I thought it was all happening in my head. All the more-than-often accidental glances and occasional love-hate comments during conversation at lunch break. But I was gladly proven wrong that day and the next twenty-four hours never felt so long as if it stretched ten times slower than the actual second to pass. I kept thinking about him with his charming scruffy goofy-look; about London, that unexpectedly had come down to butterflies and mixed feelings; that I sadly did not live in this magical city; and  although summer fling breathes temporary, short-term, even in the least sense, of affection, it somehow still made me agitated.

We agreed to meet after work at the lobby and decided to head straight to Brick Lane. It seems like a casual Thursday where everything could happen. None of us were familiar with the area, we just heard over word of mouth and brief glance over the top deck bus window that it was a great place full with artistry elements. We ended up at this coffee shop called, full stop. Brightly decorated with light colours, not the ones that hurt your eyes but instead lighten up your mood. I knew the decision to go to Brick Lane was perfect. It was just the way I wanted to remember the place, beautiful and full of stories.

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The second pint of India Pale Ale had driven the conversation deeper beyond Shakespeare sonnet and experimental ideas. Question of what is life had gone into a tangent with theatre and life was a performance. Just a little after, I noticed as he was few inches closer, resting his elbows on the small round-shaped table. Everything happened rather fast and almost as if it was scripted and I was part of romantic modern play, he leaned forward at the perfect timing between paused sentence and kissed me.

As I could feel my cheek blushed with the colour of cotton candy, I looked away at anything but his well-shaped face, gentle eyes behind vintage glasses. Again, not that I dislike looking at him, but because the very opposite reason I had to. In the beginning, if this was the summer fling I always imagined would happened, I thought it would be easy and strictly fun just like going to the beach in the summer. But apparently, it felt just as warm and heavy as actual love. That feeling of defeated where someone had finally somehow break down the thick wall you have built to protect yourself and this time you felt bare although you have reminded yourself to stay behind the line.

Without giving too much thought, I gazed at him, “Promise me something.” I said more like a demand instead of a negotiable question.
He waited quietly showing no intention of objection, “Don’t make me fall for you even more in the next two days.”
A smile rose on his face immediately as if he just heard a joke but with a twinge of blush, “That sounds like a half statement.” He then continued, “What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know.” I wished I knew the answer, but it just made me thought that this soon would end, and I had to leave this city in a matter of hours and the more the idea creeped in to my head, the more I wished everything could last. Daniel seemed to notice the shift on my face as my mind drift away and brought me back to where we were by gracefully landed his lips on mine. There was something about the way he kissed me that just gives me certain rush of comfort.
“Maybe a little less of that,” I said even though my gesture signalled the opposite.
“A little less of what?” He intentionally pretend to not understand as he stroke the palm of my hand, almost saying it’s a little too late don’t you think?

A piece by : Fiya Muiz

The Place Between Past and Present

Perhaps this what it would feel like to be idle. Like you are floating between two spaces  not quite like the place between sleep and awake where Peter Pan lives. It is much heavier, as if you are just a body and your soul is Somewhere Else. It is that place between past and present where the sun still shine and the rain still fall, but you are not whole. As if life decides to carry on without your consent and it won't slow down but yet everything still linger invisibly on your skin. You can still feel the way his hand fills the spaces of your fingers. The way his oversized jumper hang loose on your body but warms you in between the cold breeze of English summer. You can still feel your cheek sore from smiling over his bad sense of humour. This makes you hate yourself for loving it too much, because now is not enough, because you demand forever. It feels so fresh as if it just happened a moment ago although hours had turned into days and soon it will turn into weeks. And you are scared it is bound to turn into a story. And it's not enough. Although you used to settle with story, but this time, you selfishly want it to come back to the past and stay there and stop the time.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz

Never the Same Love Twice

It's easy when it comes to remembering how Charlie made me feel. As if I had him mapped in my brain, right there, in one tiny corner next to Adolescent Avenue. I would take a quick detour from the Present and take a little peek as a pay of visit down the Memory Lane. Not that I am planning to stay, or to re-live the Past, but remembering the way Charlie made me feel is always comforting.

It reminds me that I was once capable on loving someone wholeheartedly, almost crossing the line of stupidity and it was okay, it was great because he felt like home. And I can still remember like it happened yesterday even though it was over five years ago. He was the pinnacle of what I thought as the ideal to love someone. Exclusive, kind, honest and real; it was unconditional. Thus, I often find myself looking up to how I loved him, and thinking to give up what I have in the Present just because it happen or feels different.

It takes a while to understand if anything happen differently, it does not always mean that it is less special, that it worth less. F. Scott Fitzgerald once said, there are all kinds of love in this world, but never the same love twice - that we will always love differently. It may take three days, or three hours instead of three months of consecutive meetings. That person may be a mutual friends or a complete stranger you meet at the bar. The feeling may grow after the unexpected little kiss at after-work drinks not after the first or second date shy kiss.

At the end of the day, this is not even about Charlie, or an ideal way to love someone. This is about realising there are many kind of ways to fall in love. It is never going to be the same. Love can be as easy as turning your head. Love can be hard, happen so gradually until the shell breaks after several hundreds of meetings. Love can grow after a ten minute conversation over a cigarette, or love can be a worth of years knowing each other bad habit. It can happen in any kind of way.

Don't limit yourself when it comes to love. Just jump in.
A piece by : Fiya Muiz


Aku takut, bisikku padamu
ketika tanganmu dan tanganku terpaut satu di pinggir pantai itu.
Kamu menoleh gelisah dan bertanya kenapa.
Aku menjawab, karena semua ini hanya sementara dan aku ingin selamanya.

Ku rasakan genggamanmu semakin erat
di tengah deru angin musim panas dan langit yang hitam pekat.
Jangan khawatir,
tenangmu dengan suara halus yang tak bergetir.

Apa salahnya dengan sementara?
Bukan kah selamanya hanya kata,
yang tak lebih dari ilusi belaka?
Yang terpenting adalah kita nyata.

Lagipula, aku tidak keberatan dengan sementara.
Menurutku itu tidak mengapa,
karena aku bahagia,
bersamamu, tanpa harus memejamkan mata.
A piece by : Fiya Muiz

Summer Stories: London

It was the last week of July when I moved up to London for three-weeks internship. I always find London attractive, maybe not necessarily perfect, but it always creates this tension that just keeps me coming back for more. I thought this would be the chance to give it a go. A longer go. I know although London is not a stranger, but after living for over two years in a small town by the seaside where everywhere is walking distance, the idea to live in a big city sounded slightly daring, and exciting, of course. I thought there would only be two end of this: either I will grow fonder of the place or finally find a flaw somewhere in the daily commute that I ought to take part. And it turned out that I fall in love with London even better.

I stayed at my friend's flat on the third floor semi-old Victorian building with mini balcony that filled with plants in North London. She was away for the summer and she said I could crash in her room for a while. It was a lovely room. Everything was set in white but the faded blue carpet and iron-black bed frame. Somehow it enunciates life in the capital. Fast and precise. There were not much of details but still radiates beauty. There were few bits that works very funny in most corner of the flat. To flush the toilet I need to press and hold the button for a good six seconds and repeat three times until it works properly. Occasional police sirens perhaps was the city-version of birds chirping. And as the flat was located next to the main street, sometimes I could feel my bed, and the entire building too, vibrate when a bus passed by. Perhaps that was how it felt like to live in a lego house. But it was amazing, I could not help to laugh.

As for the internship, the first day of work was a piece of art. I worked at an inclusive theatre company for children and young people thirty minutes away from the central. Everything was new, and on top of it all I was still recovering from flu due to exhaustion from the week before. Thus, I was partially idle half of the day but the spirit of the children genuinely amazed me. And the rest of the staff members, too. It took a couple of days to finally settling in and get the grasp of what was happening and became a routine from that moment on. Even the commute was not scary, after all. This, however, got me thinking what's missing from the typical Things-You-Should-Do-In-Your-20s lists. Work with children. In this age, often young adults are confused almost to the point they hate life, but I believe working with children fills you in with all the make-believe that erodes in years of growing up. With their innocence and curiosity, which sometimes can get slightly annoying, may make you feel humble and like life again.

Perhaps, it is hard to hate life when you are in London (although it comes with price). One of the greatest things about living in the capital is having the unlimited choices to discover new places. Shoreditch and Camden were amazing. I found Asian dessert shop in the corner of Brick Lane. London also a great place to fall in love, too. Romantic stroll by the river Thames at night with the city lights of London beams magic spells will make you feel as if you are on page 116 of a fiction book. Another thing that I noticed, London made me forget all the little worries I've had that used to live in the back of my mind; minor things like the way I worry about my petiteness and bad eye sight did not matter in London. I was not worried any longer. Almost as if I made peace with my insecurities. And this — the part where I learned how to love the things that I hate was the most magical thing about London.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz

I Miss You, Jakarta

Now Playing

Hi Jakarta,

How have you been? I have missed you. Writing to you now feels strange, as if you are part of the Past that seem farther away than one second ago, or writing to an ex lover that I had to break up with although I still love you dearly. I suppose we are just two good friends that separated by distance and busy schedules. How long have I not seen you? Ten months? One year? I have been thinking about you lately. I see you in the slow songs just as if you are right outside my window or sometimes in the warmth August sun. 

I hope you are doing great. I vaguely remember the last time I saw you. Last summer you were not well, weren't you? You were slightly gloomy, coughing dirty smoke and had the temperature of a thousand suns. But you still spoiled me with friendly surprises. I heard you are in a much better shape now, better looking, I heard. Although I have got to say, I am a bit jealous to hear everything about you only from others. But I would settle with this as I am far from you, and until I get to see you in flesh, hopefully soon, I don't mind.

I'm so sorry that I missed your birthday. In this letter might as well I address an apology that never been said, the day when I swore to leave you, stay away from you, and said that I hated you. I did not mean it. I said it because I loved you, so much, that I had to leave in order to understand. You taught me patience and appreciation. I would have hated the snow or the rain if it was not because of you. And I learned to appreciate the merry of warm weather, too.

In case if you are wondering, I'm doing great, Jakarta. London's been amazing. Oh, I wish you could have seen the way London lights up at night. It's beautiful. That bridges in the East, it glows like the moon. I thought of you, of course. I wouldn't lie if I hadn't wished you to be like that. But my favourite part is the way London speaks. The accent sounds like a poetry to my ear, almost like a magic spell that bound me in awe. I don't know, there is something magical about London that I cannot get enough. I may be in love, who knows.

But our relationship exceeds what I have with London, don't you think? We had been through so many things together and although London glows like the moon, your beauty lies in the familiarity of Sudirman street, in the same mother language, in my grandparent's house when I learned how to swim, in that local food taste, and on that stage where I found my first love. So, even though I may be in love with London now, I do still love you. I hope you don't expect me to forget you soon. Don't ever expect me to forget you at all. You are my first home, and you will always be. I may have given up on you when I left, but I never stopped loving you. I don't think I ever could.

And I miss you very much.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz

Don't Let It Go

Don't let it go.

I know that your best friend told you to let it go, but I'm telling you don't let it go just yet until your hand feels sore. The reason why your best friend tells you to let it go because she does not want to see you get hurt also perhaps almost to the tipping point where she is tired listening to your constant repetitive stories that just go round and round in a circle. So, listen to me. I'm telling you without being less than a friend, don't let it go because deep down you know, if you let go now, you will always come back to him in a heartbeat when there is a slightest chance no matter how steep or small it is. You have to hold on as long as you can until you can't hold on any longer. Because there is nothing worse than curiosity, all the what ifs, acting like a magnet that will attract you right back, almost naturally. Finished it now, chase him if it's necessary, put all the effort on the table, be bare, set aside your ego, talk to him, work it out and be fair. If you want him to fight for you, give him reasons to. Don't sit there in silence. I don't want you to get hurt but I would rather to see you burn now with all of your effort rather than I have to see you hurt again and again in the future in the instances when you are longing for him at its best, and the universe is playing with you over an accidental meeting at the pub after three drinks in, then you swayed with the memories of the past, you won't realize you are running into the same pit again; because we both know getting hurt is inevitable in this case. If that kind of night happens, you have the will and certainty to say no, I have tried and we'd better off without each other. Gather all the reasons why you have to let it go, validate them. There may be a slight chance with a little touch of good intention, you don't need to let go. Letting go is easier than stay and fight for it, especially when you have your ego up above everything. But if it means a lot for you, if it matters, go on and fight for it. It's okay. But if you have given it all, don't force it. Don't be a fool and hanging far too long because you may miss better chances out there that may have been right next to you all along. Know your limit, don't exceed. Remember that you have tried. Remember, it did not work out for a reason. It did not just happen because he likes Family Guy better than South Park, or because none of you willing to step back and take a good look at your relationship over stupid argument. Sometimes we are too spoiled with the options of letting go, we give it up far before we make it count.

So, I'm saving you from a sequel of heart break.

Don't let it go until your hand feels sore.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz

Summer Stories, Bartender Crush and Charlie

Lately, it has been very difficult for me to focus on one thing. I would jump from things to things right after I started it as if my attention span is a prism that refract the light. For instance, I have over nine drafts (and counting) that sits very still on my dashboard that I have not finished. Initially in the spirit of Summer, I tried to write about the Summer Stories that I imagined should have happened, and I developed this idea of writing the Frustration on Having a Crush on Bartenders, which then lastly, somehow ended up wanting to write about Charlie.

So, yes. Let's try to mashed up everything in one and start with the summer. They say summer is when Stories happen. The ones that someone would keep in their memory box and tell to their grand children ten years from now. Why summer? Maybe because of the sun and the long nights that enhance the beauty in everything. But as much as I would like to disagree and say stories do not depend on the temperature, I still found myself marching to the very one place that I believed where Stories would likely to happen: the Bar; because hey, let's admit that Story won't happen when you sit at home binge watching Orange is the New Black.

To be fair, I would go to the Bar anytime as long as I have time to spare, which summer allows me to have plenty of it. Things just happen there, does not matter when, but perhaps this time I had a little bit of extra hope that I would find Stories there. Thus, for a few nights in a row I brought back my old habit to observe the bartenders from a cozy diner-like booth less than a feet away from the bar. With frequent interactions that becomes a routine, I slowly remembered why I buried myself underneath piles of university works rather than spending few hours in the midst of intoxicated conversations.

Having a crush on a bartender takes a lot of courage. Courage to get a piece of your heart broken in every single kisses on the cheek and on-the-house shots with other customers — this kind of crush is best for those who enjoys competitive challenges with minimum amount of sensitivity. This is strictly dangerous for those Hopeless Romantic out there - although Hopeless Romantics are the easiest target to sweep their feet off the ground with the warm hugs and charming crooked smile. Courage to get your hopes high. Courage to behave slightly more aggressive to stay special, because boy you are swimming with plenty of other fish as this place is the sea that people refer to. Courage to feel something so beautiful yet momentary because they are on the fast lane to fall in love  they made it so easy to love them, I was perhaps in love every night with most of them at the same time. Almost equally, but in a different way. And what scares me the most is that I liked it.

This then reminds me of the way I loved Charlie, which was the complete opposite. I remember that I loved him deeply and exclusively, I did not even have the time, nor real interest, to show interest in any other parties. I came into that bar with the thought this was the ideal way (right way) to love someone. That it took more than a bottle of Desperados and ten minutes intense conversation over a cigarette. But then again, if we think about it, is there such a thing as falling the right, or better, way? Because at the end of the day we all are aware that it will hurt the same way, either way.
A piece by : Fiya Muiz

A Beautiful Thing

"Iya, sayang." You said. And a part of me shivered.

It is not that I have never heard the word, I have, but I have never heard it the way you said it. It slurs from your mouth gracefully as if it is the climax of a beautiful poetry that catches me off guard.

It does not echo, not even a space for doubt to slip through the air of your voice.

I almost forget that one simple word can resemble so many great things. When you said it, I hear an assurance that I am not alone, that I do not need to worry, that everything is going to be Okay.

But there is only one thing: please, don't say this too often. Otherwise, I'm going to lose its meaning. Say it just about enough  for you to mean it, and for me to appreciate, to cherish, to remember that I am loved.

Because it's a beautiful thing.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz

Touch the Rain

Image and video hosting by TinyPicAll she ever wanted to do was to touch the rain. It was Sunday, thin air breathing through the gap of the window sill. She desperately waiting for the sun to set. Not that she has anything against the sun, but her favorite time of the day is when the bright blue sky slowly shifting into another form of creature, unseen. When the color bleeds into one another, when it finally gets dark and there is nothing else but the place she lives and the Moon. She heard there is another place down there, so distant called Earth. It looks like a small blue dot, and she heard that it rains there. There are things grow from the ground, something green and sly. It dances with the wind! She thought enthusiastically. It is not just stones and glittering dust like where she lives.

But her sister used to say, it never rains in the Stars. It rains on Earth because the sky is sad so it cries. The sky can cry? She asks. Yes, of course. Don't be stupid. Says her sister. She never asked her again, she does not believe her. She thinks rain is beautiful - droplet of water falls down from above together all at once. She keeps waiting for the sky to cry. But she waited, and waited so long, she is starting to believe her sister that it will never rain here. Although sometimes she would stay wake at night with a little hope that it would rain, she is afraid that she might missed the rain. Until one night she gave up, and swore to never wait for the rain again.

She did not know that a lot of things can happen between now and never. 

And that night, it rains.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz

Would You Believe Me?

What if I told you that you are beautiful? Not because of your dark hair matches with the color of your eyes. But because the way your eyes brighten when you listen to your favorite band and share one side of your earphone with me. Not because the freckles across your nose all the way to your cheek, but because the way you compliment your colleague that she looks nice in her new dress. I think you are still beautiful not just because the little extra ounces on your hips and thigh, but because you have a kind heart when you are willingly give up your seat to the elder lady. You are beautiful not just because the thick framed glasses that you have to wear everyday, but because you like to read books and be curious about things and stepping into every character's shoes. Not because the long curls of your hair, but because you are always there for your favorite ones when two buckets of Ben & Jerry's and a bottle of wine are not enough. Not because your dark or pale skin, but the way you you keep your voice low even when you have an argument with someone. Not because the shape of your eyelids but the way you are open to diversity in seeing things, especially the ones that are against your basic beliefs. You are so beautiful because you still always get up every morning to be better and not giving up on life. If I told you that you are beautiful, would you believe me?

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A piece by : Fiya Muiz

Love More: Stranger

"Stop falling in love with stranger!" says Marjorie half-frustrated into the reaction of abrupt phone call in the midst of windy Wednesday afternoon. "But you should have seen him." I said in my defense as my heart was overflowed with emotions like water running over the crystal glass. But I swear, that barista is made out of poetry.

I first noticed him on the first day I had to leave the house early to mermaid-logo coffee due to the loud construction works in front of my building that caused my head to spin far too early in the morning. I was waiting for my iced mocha latte at the end of the counter. There were three new trainees in their white blouse trying to fitting themselves with the coffee maker and all on their first day of work. He came just after putting on his green apron and tied it at the back. He seemed that he just started his shift as manager when the other older lady handed him to the trainees, 'Girls, this is Keats.' I could not help to smirk as if it was part of a scene in a film where the hero just entered the room and the girls looked slightly smitten as he smiled and waved an introductory hi. He has funny name, I thought. As I read his chalkboard name tag on his chest. Keats, It is not Keith  like that English poet, John Keats.

On the second day, I saw him walking by the table where I sat next to the window without his apron on as I recognized his chestnut-colored curly hair. My eyes was glued to him as he went outside to sit on a concrete block, he had his lunch break with a pack of cigarette and a book. Our glances met - brief, like a thunder and I was the ground. I immediately looked away, but just to find out that less than five seconds after, I was back at him. He looked better under the sun - his skin melts and his hair gleams. He just lit his cigarette, putting the metaphor into life. While reading a book on his other hand. Then between the empty seconds, he ran his fingers onto his hair, pushing it back formed the curls of his muddy-blonde hair into a perfect mess.

That's when I had to call Marjorie, when I thought I might have fallen in love with a complete stranger I met at the coffee shop on a Wednesday afternoon. Because falling in love with stranger is safe, like an actual love should feel. And perfect, because it will always stays as an idea, like a full moon on one clear summer's night. Because I am falling in love alone, without the fear of broken heart, out of the reach of brutal reality. I repeated with a voice full of hope of the opposite, "But you should have seen him." hoping that actually I'm not falling in love alone.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz

The Three Lions

It is that time of the year again where football rejoice the topic of everyone's little chats and conversations. I can hardly resist to sit tight, not participating as I made my way to the pub last Friday to watch England's first match in the group qualification. As few of my friends and I searched for empty seats, I was observing the crowds. Mostly male, with a pint of beer in their hands eagerly set their eyes to the screens waiting for the kick off in an hour. We found a chairless empty table behind small pillar in the centre of the room which then we gathered few left-over chairs from few different tables and managed to set our own nest in front of the largest screen at the pub. I was not a big fan of football, but I like to be part of the euphoria. An hour gap before the match start given me the chance to observe the crowd more. Most of them came in a large group, and their faces almost flushed-red as probably they were having their third pint of beer and on their way to the drunk-land even far before they need to drink their sorrow. It set a slight treacherous atmosphere as this might go out of hand but it then soon washed away as a close-up shot of England team with their hands on their chest started to sing God Save the Queen. Immediately, the distant chatters at the pub were gone and the entire crowd sang altogether. Their sense of nationalism and pride echoed through their heavy voice yet it sounded serene in the strangest way as I had chills down my spine.

Half way through the match, the heat was getting intense. Not just literally speaking where I could feel the hot summer's night sweats crawling at the back of my neck, but the room was too. Everyone was shouting at the screen, showing their support as if it could transmitted through some sort of invisible teleport to the field in Brazil. England was getting weaker, but hope never left their eyes. The later it got, I could hear the positivity slowly turned into frustration and swears. "Get the fucking ball!" shouted the white middle aged man standing next to me when Sterling missed the ball. Our heights were in the same level as I sat on a high chair for tall tables. I looked over towards him, and our eyes met. He seemed to notice that I was sensing his temper and slowly leaned over me, "Which team are you supporting?" sounded very harmless. He probably he could not tell upon my foreign face and trying to make a small talk, dismissing the impression I had of him. "England, of course." I answered. He seemed relieved knowing we stood on the same side as if Italy and England were water and oil. He carried on commenting the team's strategy that I had no clue of but I politely listened and smiled; partially amused with his opposites behaviors when he was having a conversation with me and when he was focusing on the match. They may seem aggressive but kind at heart. "These blokes better win!"

It got even more intense when Sturridge scored his first goal, everyone was on their feet as if like a thunder of joy just strike them at the same time, all at once. I could feel their happiness which instantly made me feel happy, too. I almost fell off my chair. It was so simple yet the magnitude of cheer amplified the joy throughout the room. To be very honest, the love I had towards England team was never objective: it always been because of I love the country, I am in it and amongst their kind. Other than that, their performance was weak in many aspects. Again, this does not lessen the faith I had in them. Less than a minute after, few of guys in their early twenties with polo shirt buttoned to the top, who were sitting on the front row, starting to throw chairs and empty plastic glass at the screen. This startled me and was obviously unpleasant, but I supposed that was how they showed their enthusiasm. For a whole second, I mapped a get away plan from the back door which was nearby where I sat although the only problem was I had to get through a bunch of tall men around me to get there if things get rough. But luckily, the plan stayed hypothetical as the crowd was still under control until the end of the game  England lost 2-1 to Italy through a smooth goal by Balotelli.

Many sad faces were seen as they made their way out of the pub with their faces facing down. However, the disgusts I had upon them turned into an admiration where I could see the flaming English passion before my eyes. That night everything was almost felt like it was designed for everybody to root for one nation. The nation where I am now. For as long as I have lived in England, on the daily nine-to-five days, most of the times people came across quite bitter towards their own country, but I swore that night everyone did not give any shit on the cheeky political interest, affairs and stood as one. I often forgot that I am in England because I am standing far too close under their nose. But until that moment when everybody sang their national anthem altogether, I finally reminded that I am in England, and I was once again fell in love with it.

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A piece by : Fiya Muiz