When Everything Feels Like Forever

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♫

Recently I stumbled upon articles stating adult nowadays are the least happiest. This is identified through the number of copies sold, and not to mention Hollywood adaptation, of Young Adult fiction. Dictionary-wise, the category of Young Adult is aimed at teenagers between the age 13-18 but statistic shows an astonishing trend that almost 30% of the readers are in their 30s.

It is then believed, adults are not happy because they are constantly trying to forget their lives as an adult and revisit the younger part of their lives way back when a bottle of wine was innocence and tax was simply just a distant tragedy. Some even believed adults who read Young Adult fiction should be ashamed to read literature that is meant for children.

In Young Adult literature - Paper Towns, Eleanor and Park, If I Stay to name a few successful works, offers the reader if less than an answer, a hope. That the good wins, and evil loses. That death isn't as bad as it sounds and love will always be there to save the day; most of the things that reality grabs away the moment one reaches adulthood.

That is why they are looking for an escape from the daily fights of money and social status in nine to five routine and commute war through Young Adult fiction. Like a time vessel, just as fast as the speed of Tube from Richmond to Battersea Park, adult do not need another reminder that life is hard and miserable. 

In the beginning I thought the reason why generation Z are unhappy is because of social media. When people are constantly putting themselves as the centre of the universe and blindly accept what others have put out there - a picture of new place they have travelled, the flowers from their significant others as a remark of their long, happy and steady relationship, the new car, the band that they just saw, as a comparison between the other's highlight reels of a film to their behind the scenes where things are most likely to go down to the gutter.

I cannot entirely disagree and stand up from myself that I am not part of the fashion. To be perfectly frank, I despise most of the (romantic) mainstream Hollywood film with happy ending bullcrap, for the all wrong reasons as to my own disappointment in life that I lose the faith in love.

I realized that everything is in a cycle, chicken and egg, one thing lead to one another. It is maybe we all are craving to escape, we tend to find security in the fashion of posting the good bits of our lives. In fiction books and films. Because we all are so busy trying to separate between what is real and what is imagined, believing that reality is a cold-hearted bitch, then we lost touch to our innocence make-believe that things may go well. That, perhaps, just a tiny perhaps love can save the day.

I'd say it's okay to say once in a while to get in touch with the teenage, child-like side of us back when everything feels like Forever,

just before the bad wolf knocks again.



P.s that song at the top kills the worst of me.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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If, If

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When I was five, I lost my tiny earrings somewhere in the living room where the Persian rug was my playground with barbie dolls dressed in pink and plastic kitchen set scattered all over the place. Surprisingly, I found it underneath the rug where my parents had searched before. With the praise of having good eyes, since that day if there was anything that was lost, my parents always sent me to find the lost things, especially those that were hard to find, 'cause they would say, "Fiya would find it." And most of the times, I always did.

My oldest best friend trusts me like a believer belief in a bible. She said if I thought of something hard, often and stubborn enough, it would actually happen. Living in England right now, was one of the instances she forcefully made me believe what she thought was real. I don't know, it could be. I did find myself more than often ran into the person that I was thinking about in random occurrences that made me think, this all was a joke. I think it is a good thing that I never thought to kill anybody so far. If that happens, I am going to be in a trouble.

One evening, I was walking by the regular pub I usually go to on the weekend when I was on my way to the restaurant up the hill. I had to stop by and said hi for the sake of politeness to the Bouncer that became a good friend of mine. Suddenly, there was a tall, blonde man in his mid twenties pointed at me as he got out from the room and said, "Oh, you're a trouble." I was shocked and immediately felt self-conscious observed the way I dressed that night, skinny jeans and loose cropped sweater. Nothing that I deemed to represent trouble. But I felt like I was, even though I never met the guy before.

If, if I do still listen to what my parents would say seventeen years ago, I would love to find you again. Somewhere, but not in the four in the morning text messages, maybe in a bowl of homemade Bibimpab instead. If, if my best friend was right, I wonder why I have not seen you in the familiar places because I have been thinking about you for so long. Yet, the only thing that I should not believe from a stranger, I believe the most. That I am, perhaps, the trouble that repel the chances to see you again as you have made your way out -

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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Colossal

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How can things appear so ordinary when it holds so many elements as rich as the human body - the bones, blood, skin, millions of brain cells and not to mention the soul? This, the very decision that you happen to be where you are, comes from layers of countless decisions out of many options. You decided this morning to get out of bed instead sleeping in because it is just plain dumb lazy, postpone the grocery shopping to later in the afternoon and head to library instead, the decision to go to library because you have an assignment to finish, you have to finish the assignment because you have decided to go to University instead of being an actor or drug dealer, you made your decision because your parents told you so, or because you have observed the promising life university has to offer, or just because you have the privilege to do so and you have got nothing better to do, or you and your parents worked your ass off to get to where you are right now, then it long winded back to you, you as human being when God or whoever with the Greater Power there you have faith in breathe soul as your parents decided to have you, or even if you were unplanned, however the case, you are here, which only meant one thing: you were decided to be kept, to grow as you are right now. It is your decision to live today, right at this moment to read this. You bravely did not decide to end your life because hey, a heroine from one of the most watched films in history of human life and vampires, Bella Swan, once said death is easy and life is so much harder. So, well done. Give yourself pat on the back. Get a glass of wine and watch Friends. Why? Because dammit, you deserve this. We should celebrate. The fact that you are reading this is based on so many things however insignificant, irrelevant, simple-almost-to-nothing it feels like, it is colossal.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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Baby, I Was Made to Break Your Heart

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Oh, bless you, he said with half moon smile just as I told him his performance was amazing. And I never felt so blessed. I did not make that up, of course. The part where his band was amazing. His band was genuinely smashed the night at the Auction House where the usual local gigs was held. It was not the first time I saw him perform, after being introduced through a friend months ago, I had been going to see the band for several times now, reliving the old days when I barely sixteen and nerdy.

Their soulful funk-slash-contemporary-reggae music might have been off the track of the usual music I listened to, but there was something about them as a band that put everyone in an inevitable spell. Zac, the vocalist with sun-coloured wavy curl hair with thin well-shaved beard, was the one I had a conversation with ten Saturdays ago. He was the charming one. His look reminded me of Australian surfer down under that live life as it happen. Except, he was English and in a band.
Funny that I used to joke with Marjorie, could not help being all girly, about which of the band members that we were attracted to the most.
He's too blonde for my taste, I told Marjorie without taking my eyes off of the stage.
Oh, it doesn't matter to me, she replied cheekily. I really like the vocalist.
With that, we settled that she would go for the vocalist and I would go for the dark haired, bearded bassist as we laughed ourselves into the night
They used to stick around after their performance for a beer or two. I often saw them smoking cigarette, looking so normal yet my eyes would believe they glow amongst others as if they had halo circling above their heads. Zac often threw very friendly smiles when he passed by. He has that with him at all times, as if it was his best accessory. It was, it definitely was. While I had zero interaction with anybody else in the band, unless eye contact counted.
Our recognition of each other stood still between two seconds greeting and the stage until three weeks ago. They had another gig at the Auction House after a very long hiatus. If anything, their music made me strangely, you know, happy.
When they got off the stage, I stood still with a pint beer on the side of the room with Marjorie still clapping and whistling. A little while after, Zac came over and said hello. Surprised, his voice sounded as beautiful as he was on stage. And he finally he cleared up our anonymity and asked for my name.
I did not know where Marjorie gone to, but I got into the conversation with Zac that I thought would not have lasted longer than ten seconds. Ten minutes in, still with the loud music on the background, my knees started to feel weak and butterflies kicked in. The preference I thought I stood for disappeared. Of course, I have heard rumors about him. How many hearts he had break over the short span of intense fling, as it became really clear to me as he got all that he needed to do so. But for the whole conversation with occasional hit on the arms, his words and looks, I did not mind for him to break my heart.
I leaned closer to his ear, it's getting very crowded here. Do you want to go for a cigarette?
He looked at me instantly and replied with a smile, Yes, sure. Let's go outside.

I could hear my heart is about to break from two blocks away in the future.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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Unlike Yours

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Does her love make your head spin? She asks. He turns aside, a silence gives away the ugly truth that says I’m sorry, but it does. And there she falls and break into a million little pieces.

♫

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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Inner Monologue: The Sound of Ticking Clock

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It's crazy how I see every second is ticking – it is now thirteen past eight.

I have got few more hours until midnight. That is when I ideally should go to bed. If these thoughts are not misbehaving. If the hours stop haunting me in fear, that I will soon lose this day to the arms of yesterday, while I do not quite desire tomorrow or the day after. I feel responsibilities are choking me in thin air. My mind is far too busy to breathe. My palms are sweating. My temples are hurting with  intense pressure. My inner body is experiencing indescribable heat as if I am boiled on a wood-fired stove.

It is eighteen past eight.

The comfort I am looking is partially here, caressing the side of my neck. My pulse is getting steady. The heat is passing. The contemplation that I wish works as holy as prayers still sit quietly. With the look full of tease, as if it says I am a time-bomb. I could or I could not explode any minute. It comes back again, flashes of responsibilities flashing before my eyes. Tick tock, tick tock. Today is slipping away to the arms of yesterday, while I do not desire tomorrow or the day after. But in all fairness, all I have is now, and I am wasting it all away to the sound of ticking clock.

It is twenty five past eight.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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Grey

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Katerina just finished working at one small coffee shop around the corner where she lived. On her way home, which only took seven minutes walk even with her small steps, she thought that her life was different. She was walking the usual route, a straight path next to a cemetery that looked rather agonizing than full of horror. The tombstone carved gracefully, only the wilted flowers from the loved ones and the faded color claimed its gloom.

She felt she had lost touch to whatever that kept her alive, the sugar to the tea. She wished she could have known what was missing, but everything happened so gradually she barely noticed her fingers stopped typing, her lips rested flat instead pulling the half-moon shape smile and her eyes lost its flicker.

She did not know what happened - she could only guess in the dark. If the world was an ocean, she must have been the coral reef that eroded every time the waves hit. Although her steps were not heavy, but the hollow grew stronger. She was just there. Walking, and nothing else.

She felt the world had gotten into her. The thirst of validation from others crept down her sleeve, she was no longer live for herself but through others. It was a terrifying circle; now, she felt her self-worth defined by validation of others as she constantly seek for attention, living with the customed standard. And when it was deemed to be non-existent, even in the slightest bit, she devoured to the ground, at the lowest.

Suddenly, she had the urge to smoke. Smoking was good distraction. Her hand reached out down her Turkish-patterned sling bag, but she remembered she did not have the pack of cigarette with her. She kept it hidden on her bedside drawer. For emergency only, she thought once. She felt agitated more than ever.

She was less than fifty steps away from her front yard, but she felt like it was the longest, darkest and tiresome walk she ever had. She knew she had to get out of there soon before she faded, grey.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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