Forever.

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First of all I have to say, I had not been a faithful blogger, or a faithful Twilight fans, or even faithful to anything seriously. In a nutshell, the following content of my post is going to be a brief summary of my weird overwhelming non-sense reaction regarding Breaking Dawn part two. Even though in theory, I had stopped giving appropriate attention related with Twilight hysteria since new moon ends, I do still watch the sequel, at least once. And today, it just hit me straight on my face that the end was literally passing before me. Or us. Or who ever took part in this, mystical human history that nobody with rational mind could ever solve in a thousand years.

If I am not mistaken, I have finished reading the book roughly three years ago. In essence, I have almost completely forgot the bits and details about the story. Let alone the ending.  Thus, today I came in to the cinema with empty vision of what's going to happen; I guess I was just too consumed by the society so all I could think of was bad image of Kristen Stewart and how some part of the universe brutally disgusted with this movie. I mean, really brutal. Although I am not taking any part on hating or defending her, I just cannot get into the right sense why everybody hates Kristen. The closest theory I can come up with, is because she get the golden chance to know (or even better, date) Robert Pattinson (or Edward Cullen), that has this everlasting, mysterious, undeniable charm and none of us in real life can be near where she stand. So, it suppose to be more like a jealousy than hatred.

Enough rambling, onto the movie. Honestly, I was not fond of anything in the beginning of the movie, at all; it was more like a comedy, rather than watching Twilight series -- up until the ending. That was when it me hard. Oh, it is hard to explain without spilling spoilers here but just for the sake of letting my emotions and feelings out the way of my heart, body and soul, let me just say this once and for all, I walked out the theatre three hours ago, just like when I walked out of the theater back three years ago in 2009. It almost felt like I remember all over again the reason why I fell in love with Edward Cullen in the first place. I just did not know what just happened. The last part of Breaking Dawn? The end of Twilight Saga? Really? I think confessing the end of something is definitely not my thing. As if there was a bit of my soul that just been taking away.

This happens to me, who I assume myself as not a massive Twilight Saga die hard fans. The existence of my love towards Twilight Saga had soon gone after my disappointed upon Eclipse, or even maybe just after New Moon. Hence, I cannot imagine how the true and dedicated fans out there may feel. Regardless, this is the moment where I am fully aware, my teenage life has over; considering this was part of my stupid teenage obsessions and I am about to turn twenty in a week, blimey. I know, I know. I don't have to worry because I will come up with new one longing obsession soon enough as this world restlessly invents brand new obsession every breathing second. But still... you know... to hell with the end, might as well watch it again tomorrow just for the sake of letting loose the intense heat of the ending!

Oh, that was a relief. Thank you and happy watching, loves.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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Bukan Untuknya, Bukan Untuk Siapa

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Perempuan Datang Atas Nama Cinta
Bunda Pergi Karena Cinta

Digenangi Air Racun Jingga Adalah Wajahmu

Seperti Bulan Lelap Tidur Di Hatimu

Yang Berdinding Kelam Dan Kedinginan

Ada Apa Dengannya?

Meninggalkan Hati Untuk Dicaci

Lalu Sekali Ini Aku Lihat Karya Surga

Dari Mata Seorang Hawa
Ada Apa Dengan Cinta?

Tapi Aku Pasti Akan Kembali Dalam Satu Purnama

Untuk Mempertanyakan Kembali Cintanya

Bukan Untuknya Bukan Untuk Siapa

Tapi Untukku,

Karena Aku Ingin Kamu

Itu Saja.

- Ada Apa Dengan Cinta, 2002.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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I Want John Hughes to Direct My Life

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

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

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

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

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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Long Distance Runner

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

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

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

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

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

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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The Unsaid Things

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

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

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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It's Twenty Seconds 'til the Last Call

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

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

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

I'll be okay.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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If You're Still Bleeding, You're the Lucky Ones.

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The worst part is the minute you think you're past it, it starts all over again.

(Grey, M. 2009)

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

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

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

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

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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