A Beautiful Thing

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"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
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Touch the Rain

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All 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
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Would You Believe Me?

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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?

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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Love More: Stranger

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"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
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The Three Lions

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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.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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On How to Be a Writer

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A couple weeks ago, I stumbled upon an article on Medium about “How to Be a Writer”. This article was inspired when a mother asked Ms Becker, the writer, what she should be doing to support her daughter to be a writer.

The first thing Becker says is to read and write a lot, but she thought those two suggestions are not enough, which then lead the article to get even more interesting. This sets me into a retrospective mood looking back and match few points that are mentioned on her list. Here are a few of her suggestions:

She says, let her be bored.

I used to have a long afternoon waiting for my mum to finish work when I was in elementary school. We lived in a very nice and quiet suburban area, an hour drive through the highway from the Central. Commuting back and forth to drop me off home and back to my mother's office seemed inefficient. Thus, I would wait for her at her office, which was in the Southern part of Jakarta where big houses are used as a working space for local businesses.

Inside the office, sometimes I would run around without my shoes on because the marble-tiled floor was very slippery and it was perfect for me to pretend I was an ice-skating goddess/princess on ice. Nobody mind, though, I was welcomed. But most of the times, I would sit quietly in front of one of the empty computers that used to seem magical and exciting even though the size of it was almost as big as boom box radio. Then, I'd write.

I wrote how the day at school went, how excited I was when there was a new girl at school named Mila whom I immediately befriended. It was probably one page long with massive font size, then I would print them off, again, still fascinated with the growing technology of warm black ink writing itself on a white blank page. On our way home, I would show it to mum with all the proudness shone through my toothpaste-commercial smile.

So, there I was indeed bored. With the empty hours I had, I started to develop the habit to write.

Secondly, she says let her make mistakes.

To begin with, mistakes are complex and so does this next part that I am about to write. It is not necessarily black, or white. But bear with me. 

I had the first unrequited love when I was fifteen. When the other girls were claiming love with boys our age, I fell in love with an older guy. He was twenty and I was just about to turn sixteen. Back then, I was trying so hard to be an adult, just to stand out in his eyes that I was mature and capable. Come to think of it, I may have missed the teenage rebellion phase because I was trying to be his age, when I was not. It was either that, or I basically have an old soul.

As much as I tried to be an adult, I was not. I let him slipped away, without saying anything and never for once stopped liking, or loving, him for a moment until I found a new love in high school. Because of this, I wrote my first English short novel based upon him – it was shit, but in there, I got to make things right. I had my happy ending.

There it is, I find salvation in writing. I did it. I made mistake by falling in love with the wrong person – if by wrong means not being loved in return. Looking back, what he did was right. If I were him, I would not approach me; I was far too young, far too naïve, to know what love is. I think, we simply just met in the wrong time.

Probably if he did love me back, or this did not happen, I would not have the force to write more. And probably, I would not love writing as much as I do now that I don’t want to give it up for the world.

So, if there is anything that you won’t trade for the world, I suggest you keep it.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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Everyday by Gustav Johansson

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"How would you feel about having an eight-day a week?"

"If we could think of a name that includes day, I think that'd be appropriate."

"Maybe, everyday?"

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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