A Case of Me

fiction

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When the day has fallen asleep, the sun rests and let the night take over, awake in the dark, people will march in here like a bunch of blood-thirsted vampires. In this place, the lights are always dimmed; it is never been bright, as if eyes are not meant to see traces of abstract arches drawn on the ceiling. The floor is often slippery and full of heavy steps. It is loud, so loud screams sound like whispers and whispers are as golden as silence. The music wraps everyone in rhythm, warmth and present. Here, nobody needs to listen, just a mind to forget. This is the place where people run away to. For some, this is their sanctuary. Anything, everything, can happen here – the opposites emotions devour like collision between two seas with different densities, while I stand at the back, waiting to be served.

Here, love can grow and end, hope and regret breathing down each other’s neck. Sincerest confession and arguments slurring like river in a church, a place where sometimes nobody can tell the difference between love and lust. Nonetheless, they do not care. Everyone here is present, to their bodily self; not necessarily to forget, but just to be here, not to be alone. They are looking for the a case of me – preserved happiness in a form of liquid in a bottle pour into thin shaped glass, and sometimes spilled over a friend or on the bar that soon wiped, just like those tears on her pink blushed cheek as her heart just got broken, so I have heard.

With the help of the hero of the night behind the bar, serving, mixing the best of me; I would dance in their hands swing me into the air and pour me elegantly, almost perfect. In their hands, I am safe. People would grow the best sense of honesty through every pour of me. I can be sweet, bitter and sometimes I would burn like flames down their throat. But then again, they don’t mind as long as they get their salvation. In the morning, they will blame me for the mistakes, regrets, heavy-head that risen up along with the sunshine. And some will thank me, for giving them the confidence they are longing to seek.  Of course, all of those reigned after they had consumed me, like love that slowly, gradually take some part of me, until I am running out of myself, empty. And their momentary happiness, lightness and laughter will be the death of me.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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Lost and Confused

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Sometimes I think that the confused 20-something generation is not meant to be lost and confused. But because we are told by the society that we are suppose to be lost and confused at this age, so we are. Maybe if we are told that in our 20s we will find ourselves, unleashing the endless possibilities within us with the promise of certainty, we would feel less confused than we already are.

This whole lost and confused paradigm on finding the inner you, makes it even harder to process. The pressure, doubts and self-question are overwhelming on its own. And since the day self-actualisation is being related with non-anonymity and success, human are running towards the path of mass-production. Those who are not fall under the criteria, automatically define themselves as unworthy. They gain their self-identity through mainstream comparison with the others.

This is rather a slippery road. When one is lost and confused, their soul tend to wither as they become more and more fragile. If they are not be able to see pass through the difficulties, living under the pressure of the society dictating them in their subconsciousness and even in their sleep, they won't be able to see what they are worth objectively in all fairness. Instead of fighting, they may lay their soul to rest and give up. Or, they may turn up to be what the society wants, not what they actually desire to be

We are howling under the impression that we are bound to be extraordinary to make it. If not, then it is the end of the world. But maybe, we can be good at being ordinary as long as we are happy and build up our way from there. It is quite hard to feel this way when everything that surrounds us and what construct the so-called reality are screaming the opposite. How can we sail the ship to the ocean of greatness if the tide keeps pushing us back to the shore?

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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I'd Like To

fiction

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I'd like to spend Valentine's Day with you. Yes, you. Although I know we are not together, or anything, but I'd say we would kick Valentine's Day right on the bum. We'd begin with statements against Valentine's day, which soon build up into a consumerist debate of mass-manipulation for the public to spend their money on heart-shaped cards and roses, using affection for granted. But I would still like to spend Valentine's Day with you.

We'd probably go to the arcade by the beach and waste our coins on silly games. Not that we planned the trip, but it just happen to be the day where we'd end up in an arcade. I'd beat you in NASCAR Race with my beginner's luck but you'd win the rest of the games. I'd watch you play Guitar Hero, living the dream of being in a band for the whole three and a half minutes. The old faded red carpet would be your stage and I'd stand next to you and be your number one fans.

We'd say no to ice cream and long walk on the beach, considering England's weather in mid February is far from comfort of Spring sunshine and heat. But we would stay for a while, making fun with the romantics and lovebirds filling the seats at the cafe by the beach.

Then we'd settle to a warm pub across the park. We'd talk over a pint of Ginger ale. I'd listen to you telling stories about your family; you are the youngest of three and you broke your nose when you were eleven over a fight with your brother. And then you'd stop half way, apologising for talking too much. You'd say that's what you do when you are nervous and excited. I'd smile, asking you to carry on. With you, my other stories can wait. I don't mind listening because I am making mine, with you, as we speak -- you are the story I want to have and tell.

By the end of the day, we would learn to dislike Valentine's Day much less. And I know, I'd like to not just spend Valentine's day with you but every other day too.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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After

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We are all aware that life goes on and the world will not wait for anybody, any circumstances. Yet no matter how familiar we are with the term, it is still feel funny to see the person that used to mean the world for you, hold so little value in the life you are living now. The way you define the relationship lies somewhere between not quite a stranger but nothing more, maybe less, than a friend.

You notice this when you tried to tie up those two threads that loosen over lunch, but then you realised, it is not the same. The conversations that once burning like wildfire has gone. Now, chitchat is thought as heavy. It almost feels like you have to drag it all the way across the room just to keep it going. You realised both of you have grown out of each other and the only thing that tied you both is the past. And past, as Jonze once said, is just a story we tell ourselves.

A story that does not follow the changes along with you. Hence, it creates this sadness that rests softly on your shoulder, not because you have not let it go, but more to the sense where you were so used to associate the image of this person, the one who once altered your life in the least expected-yet-amazing way, to be almost perfect and when it feels somewhere less, you feel misplaced then wonder what happened. While if you look more carefully, you actually wanted this to happen.

The changes passed so gradually — in the sense, you were once too focused to forget, then when busy days started fill in your routines, it faded. You might not see it coming, but you wished this day to happen out of your consciousness. Remember that night, after everything fell apart? Maybe you were in your room, writing your heart out on a piece of paper, day after day but it never felt enough. Or that time, when you called your best friend to seek for comfort.

What is more that this is also the part where the past version of you secretly afraid to happen. To finally forget, to finally lose the meaning of this person that used to be the centre of your universe. Leaving you in awe, someone that meant so much to you back then can be so much less now than you could ever imagined. It feels funny, because this is the tipping point, the final phase before you whole-heartedly moved on, don't you think?

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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Heaven, Too.

poem

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I.

His eyes say he's been through hell,

Yet, he always say, "Darling, I'm swell"
His lips used to murmur the sweetest gift,
Now silence has locking it stiff.

I hold his hand and place it above mine.
Resting still, next to a glass of wine.
"Tell me honestly what's bothering you?
I'd fight those demons with these two human hands if I have to."

He smile and retrieved his hand off mine then put  it on my cheek,
Looking deep into my eyes before he starts to speak,
"Love, don't you worry about the blue —
Cause don't you know I've seen heaven, too?"

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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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 future. To 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

fiction

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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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