The Past

Peur


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I remember I saw the image of foggy forest and I wanted to write. And then I remember.
I remember the wholeness of the fear rushing through my blood vessel. So quick, almost unnoticed. As if it is part of the dark red venous blood, sliding through the blue, innocent veins altogether in disguise. Its presence intensely pressing like a invisible bundle of air stuck in my lungs, so  immediate, caged under my long curved bones. It is real. Maybe I have kept it at the bottom far too long, pushed it too hard, thus it is now in the surface, longing to be chosen out of others, to be felt. And I hardly able to dismiss. It is in fraction of the feeling of inadequacy upon this body, this mind. Some others in abstract lines of thoughts that what I have done was not enough — was never enough. It all shapes this expression of more than a deer caught in the headlight; I am scared. The quiet kind of scared, the one that does not shiver, shake your body or fingertips but instead, your beliefs of self-identity. And when I'm scared, I tend to run away. I would run far, beyond the past, farther from futureTo the dim place where nothing, nobody can find me in the light. And what scares me the most is that I would run too far, too deep even I, won't be able to find myself.
A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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A Daydream

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I was at the rear side of the stage, quietly watching the room filled up as the clock struck later and the sky traveled darker. He was right there at the backstage where I could steal a glance from the side, strumming his guitar, looking as found as ever. I, on the other hand, was lost in the merry state. It was my first week working part-time in this concert hall, fulfilling the task of assistant manager of the event and updating the venue's website with recent events which also include interviewing the performer. However, the level of anxiety had not yet lowered. We were introduced the other day, when he first landed from the States. His eyes looked weary but as soon the joke about the weather came up, the ice melt as he laughed saying he was from Canada, and two degree Celsius was warm. Nonetheless, his maroon checkered shirt tonight made him looked more appealing. He had the sleeves rolled up to his elbow, showing his tattoos all over his right hand. I secretly swore at his persona before he looked up into the perfect alignment of my gaze and smiled. Five more minutes, I heard the manager marched in. Of course, my heart soon resist to beat regularly.

Shut up, I murmured to myself.  Constantly trying to shut the voice in my head, that somehow narrate the whole long situation since the day I met him. He had two shows held in my town for two days due to the high demand as this was the only city he visited in the whole United Kingdom for his tour. This was the second night, yet his charm was still new, burning brighter than sunshine. As I made my way to settle the stage, minutes before the show start was always been my favorite part when the lights were dimmed, and sound of guitar strings echoed throughout the acoustic, letting the music stole everyone's breath in the room. It was almost in the tangent line of magic spells. Especially, in here. One of the reason I applied for this job was because this venue looked like the place where Shakespeare fall in love. That, and the odd chances meeting with beyond-words talented musicians that leave me drooling in Rosemary's fantasy. He was taking the centre stage by storm, marked with a golden-brown Persian carpet and a stool next to him. For the whole hour, I had to keep reminding myself to keep my feet on the ground, or I would seriously lost within the translucent fascia of heart-wrenching sound. Everything went well, until the first sound of smashed glass aloud at the back of the room.

He stopped in the middle of the song, stepped on the distortion pedal and leave a momentarily haunting pause. The whole room was in silence. 'Are you two fighting at the back?' asked him, turning most of the heads to the direction where two average-sized men looking aghast in embarrassment.  'I am singing in the middle of this song that meant a lot to me, about someone that died in my life, that's when you chose to fight?' The sound of sarcasm was howling through every words he said. Also, the pause intensifies the tension. I saw he clenched his fist as if he was keeping his anger right underneath and he was so close from exploding. It was all in his eyes. I have never seen him this angry. 'I'm sorry but can I ask all of you to, please, don't be an asshole tonight?' The crowd cheered for him and booed the guys at the back as two bouncers assisting them to leave the premise. I did not care about the rest of the room, whilst maybe, I should have but I was glued to the ground while my eyes were fixated on him. Behind his glasses and acoustic guitar he did not strike as close as a smudge of tempered man. To be honest, I was scared. In the sense of I have never seen him this human, and it was thrilling; considering the idea of him was brutally flawless, this proven he had the same blue-beating vein as the rest of the people. And somehow that was all I wanted to know.

He did not continue the song, maybe because it was too personal for him and it was once ruined, thus instead he went the the side of the stage close to where I stand, to change his guitar for the set and sling his acoustic guitar on him, 'Sorry about the fuss.' he said to me as he stroke my arms briefly before coming back to the stage. I felt stone weighing down my knees and tingling sensation of mild burn on the heart. This might have been more than admiration. But at this point, was where the camera panned out to an establishing shot and flashbacks to the first meeting in the empty venue. Then slowly focusing on the corner, to the blonde girl whom was there all along but I tried to remove from the narrative since the first introduction, waiting on the first row booth, drinking cocktail out of thin shaped glass watching the stage in such loving gaze, which at the end of the show he would run to and kissed her gently on the cheek whilst all I could get was a smile and a daydream, I mean an article, to write down. The part where he dedicated the song for the girl he just met then followed with possible make-out session at the after party and finding true love was long gone from the scenario.
A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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When Was the Last Time Someone Told You It's Okay?


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When was the last time someone told you it's okay?

Let's just breathe easy and cut a slack. Let's make ourselves a cup of tea. Drink it in. Let's just sit and be quiet. Feel the warmth on both of your hands, hold it tight like it was the hand of someone you want to touch. It is your skin against a porcelain mug, watch the steam evaporates out of the liquid matter in a circle-shaped inanimate entity as if it was also breathing. Let's take ourselves away from the demons that ought to whisper day and night. All we need is ourselves. As a being. Cause we are pretty but often we cannot see. If it is not us who is going to start to think this way, why anyone else would? This world can be sweet, too. Somehow in some way. It is okay for whatever that is. If love suffocates you, if love have not find you. If tomorrow scares the shit out of you. It is okay if you are struggling. It is okay to worry. But it is not okay to let it defines you. You know, I'm scared, too. Sometimes I would lay on the floor, just because I want to be on the ground, knowing that I would not get any lower, and this is the lowest that I can get. I would hide under the blanket and close my eyes. I can feel I am in the dark and the shadow of fear and worry won't follow. But I won't hide for too long, I'll get out when I am ready because I know the world won't wait for me but when I'm ready. Sometimes, the best way is to take a moment, not to think about it and stop trying for a while. Because sometimes, the more you think, the more you can't get a hold of it. Gather yourself over a cup of tea, then try again.

But for now, let's just breathe.

Now, I'm going to tell you it's okay. It's going to be okay.
A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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Next Week

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She was not fond of surprises or coincidences. Without the exception when she found him at her favourite bar on a Friday night where she was hoping for a calm evening, on behalf of her racing heartbeat. She tried to avoid the very form of the past she had to let go, but it was too late.

He said: "Hey!"
Sounded genuinely shocked, as if she was a ghost, or maybe she was for him.
She said: "Hey,"
Calmer than she sounded in her head.

They briefly chatted of how are you and what you have been up to cliches underneath the uncomfortable longing to touch; probably for the sake of the history, politeness or the feelings that were still vaguely linger, before parted to their own fortress.

But then suddenly,

He said: "Do you want to do something next week?"
His familiar warmth was once again stroke her in shock, unexpected, as she was ready to walk away. She thought the conversation was over. She thought, he was gone. She thought, he would never come back. But he did.
She said: "Uh, yes, sure."
A moment of doubt, but followed with intense affirmation as if yes was not enough, as if sure would support her answer stronger than her bones.
He said: "Okay, I'll text you."
She smiled, out of her breath as he left, looking at what she thought was happiness.


So, she waited.

And waited for some more.



Next week never felt so long.



But then of course, just like that one moment of doubt, there was never a text received and next week never happened. There went the last remaining part of heart, gone.
A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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It's Everywhere

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It's everywhere, you know. It's anywhere you go. Everything you touch. In that coffee shop next to the Italian restaurant, under your blanket, even on the the highest shelf on fourth floor library that you hated to go. It's that band that you keep listening to, over and over again. That text message you just received from a friend that you have not seen for a while, or talk for a while. It is in the book you are reading. The essay you have to write. That conversation in the pub when you are having one too many beers on a Thursday night. When you are running out of milk and you have to get it in the store across the street, but you have to wait for the traffic light turns red then you can cross and that is also when you look up to the sky that looks so grey you noticed you have not seen the sun for three days. The look of admiration when you are on the check out lane waiting behind this old man that looks about 65 year old but still go shopping by himself. The compliment your friend gave you for not giving up trying. That joy after putting the meal you cooked by yourself from scratch on a white porcelain plate. That hug from your favorite bartender in town last Friday night that still linger for some time. The struggle to move on from that heartbreak. The picture of you and your family on the holiday in the island of the sun several years ago but the feelings were as fresh as this morning breakfast. It is in the hope of your summer going to be like this year. It is in the fear. It is in the worry. It is in the song you are listening right now. It's everywhere. Inspirations are everywhere. You don't get to say you cannot write — because you can.
A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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All They Could Do Was Just Dancing

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He was sitting on the edge of the bed with his back slightly hunched. Quietly, he watched her slow dancing in the centre of his room to the medley of ballad songs. He did not know where the songs from, though it was played from his laptop but those were not the songs he had in his playlist. But then, his mind wander, he had never seen her this beautiful in her short grey dress as if she was fleeting with the melody. Inhaling her cigarette in between her small steps. Maybe the way her neck was exposed as she had her hair tied up into small bun that looked slightly messy, curls falling off on the sides next to her ear. Maybe the way she looked very fragile in her movement while closing her eyes. Maybe because he knew this would be the last night before he had to let her go.

She never liked dancing. The concept of moving along was strange because she grew up hiding behind still things; books and drawings. Hence, it explained the lack of confidence built in her. But tonight, she would just like to drown herself into the song, as if she could prolong the night, away from tomorrow, and away from her doubts. That was why she opened his laptop when he was outside, looking up online to the song that was not on his playlist, the unfamiliar, the one he did not need to know and remembered, the music she could slow dance to. This was better, she thought. Then, her thoughts wander, what day was it, would she still remember tonight in a year? Would she regret her decision to break the relationship that she thought could save her from falling, in the morning? But how could she feel this heavy, as if she was sinking to the bottom of the ocean?

He was so close to change his mind but he knew his life was not a motion film. Although this beautiful being was dancing before him, there was no story board or a script that change the truth that he was still lost and he could not take her with him. Not that he did not want to, he wanted her tonight more than any other days since the first time they met on the last day of Winter, but he could not shake off the thought she was worth more than being lost with him. He could not see where he was going, and he thought wherever he goes, there would be this darkness that follows. And she shines, so bright, he was afraid he would take the lights off her, turn into debris of his wasted constellation, if she were to stay with him.

She crushed her cigarette butt by the ashtray, replacing the empty spaces between her fingers with a glass of wine that she left on top of Jack Kerouac's book. The taste of white wine calmed her, but not like the way he did. Almost. Almost, she grinned. Caressing the side of the glass as if it was his palm, finding how worthless the word almost was, the insufficiency engraved in the syllable. It was there but not quite. The part where it should matter, was just not enough. She closed her eyes again, deeper into the hums and thinking, he was almost the guy of her dream that all she ever wanted, but he could not see himself, gleams with potential, looking charming as if God created him to start jealousy. But he could not see it, he just could not. And she was, too, his almost-love that was just too bright it burned instead of light him up.

He stood up from bed, approaching her to have a better touch of what he had to let go. Her steps slowed down as she noticed he was getting closer. She wanted to be saved, but she knew he could not do it. Gently from behind, he put his arms around her waist that soon welcomed by her hands, placing on top of his. He could feel a touch of cold crystal glass stroke his palm before her warmth dismiss everything he was ever doubted. She was worth more than being lost with me, he repeated. She leaned her head on his chest, slightly to the side, letting his resting on her shoulder. She could feel his breath on her neck and the weigh of his world that she would like to help to carry but she did not know how. She could not saved him either. In the corner of their distinct minds, they knew they had to let these hands go.

Now they were in the same rhythm, dissolving into the last verse of the song, only a fabric away from each other's skin, longing to stay a little while longer. But in that moment, all they ever were just two souls that met in wrong disposition. And all they could do was just dancing, till the morning sealed their fate away.
A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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