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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The Pretty Ones

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My best friend in Elementary School is getting married tomorrow.

The last time I met her was last year when I went home to Indonesia for the Summer. We decided to have a small dinner at a Chinese restaurant in the Central with few others mutual friends. But she had stopped being my best friends long ago. It felt quite odd talking to her again, not the uncomfortable odd, it was the kind where I knew I used to spend every weekend at her house playing Barbie dolls, eleven years ago when we were almost like a pair of shoes that never went anywhere separately. But now, we barely spoke more than two sentences in a year.

Nadia and I were the very definition of best friends back then. The ones where everybody envy, not that I would try to sound snobbish, but it was true. Sometimes other peers, or teachers would gave us a strange look. Some of them thought we were sisters. We both had long dark wavy hair, big round eyes and pointy nose. People said we were the pretty ones. But who we were to understand when we were kids the only thing we know was Westlife, and not that it ever fed our ego  too, but I always thought she was prettier than me. She had kinder smile, better teeth, the perfect toothpaste commercial-like. There was just something about her that radiates gentleness.

Everything changed just before we entered fifth grade. I remember we were on our way to the canteen on a recess and we walked by the teacher's office. Suddenly our then teacher told us off to stop being friends. I remember the way he looked at us, with the full-on eyes of anger and disgust as if having a best friend was a crime. He said our friendship prevent us from socialising with other students. On the next academic year, we were put in different class. And as what he wanted, we drifted apart sooner than I ever thought. Perhaps it gotten into us, well, at least into me, that I foolishly believed that I must have done something wrong. The promise that we both made to spend lunch break together was never happened.


From two missed lunch break, to occasionally say hi on the hallway. We eventually gotten busy with different class schedule, and found ourselves mingle with two different group. And that was the end of our barbie-doll friendship.

When she messaged me yesterday telling me that she was getting married, I was eating crisps while watching YouTube. I was confused at start, as it was kind of a surprise - both the news, and the fact she was asking for my blessing. Then, rush of nostalgia hit me, also a twinge of an odd comparison between us. I started to wonder what would happen if we were still best friends. If that teacher never told us to stop being friends and put us in different class. I never imagined, nor realised until recently, that we grew up to be the complete opposite individual. She led a life where everything goes as planned; finished studying, got a job and get married. She graduated university by the age of 20, now having a steady well-paid job at an IT company and ready to get married. While I, on the other hand was still struggling to finish up university, 22, with the longest record of relationship was four months obviously no where near ready to get married.

I did not know how we ended up being very different. By all means, there was no black and white ground here - we simply chose different path. But maybe if we were to stay being a close friend, I would be calmer than I am now, she would be louder than she is now. I asked her earlier this morning, how she would spend her last day of being single - in my head, with the closest culture relevance around me now, I obviously thought of going out with girl friends, I don't know, have fun as if it was the day you have to celebrate - I personally never thought of this, I had not had a thought of getting married, let alone hen party. But instead she said, "I'm just gonna lay on the couch the whole day because this will be the last day I'd spend being lazy alone."


I smiled at her answer. That can be the sweetest way to embrace her new life, that she will always have a company from tomorrow onwards. After all this time, she still has that kindness and gentleness even in her words. Now, I am aware that even though we were not as close as we were in the first four years of elementary school, and did not matter how brief, childish our friendship was, I still admire her for whoever she was or is, and value our friendship then more than the length of barbie house playtime.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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For Some Strange Reasons

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"I have never really given much thought about marriage," Said Becca, looking elsewhere. The conversation had gone a little too deep as the sun set behind the horizon. George was sitting in front of her, leaning back to the suede-blue arm chair at the coffee shop as he comfortably listening to her.

George and Becca had gone through long history of friendship, often disappear from each other radar when one was in a relationship with another party, then break ups and hang ups. But they always found a way of reconciling as two ends of red strings that all they need was invitation for coffee and it would tied them both back again.

They were good friends, in secrecy of each other's mind, they both thought their relationship was pretty much based on attraction and constant flirtation hidden in platonic narration. Becca continued, "But if I had to, I could only imagine being married to you." George did not seem to be surprised, more because her straight tone of voice conflicted the intended meaning of the sentence as if there her statement was natural. If it had meaning, George thought while waiting for Becca to carry on.

She took her caffe mocha that almost empty and took a little sip before putting it back gently on the round-shaped table. Becca continued as if she was leaking words, "I can imagine living with you, in an apartment in the Central with small balcony, which probably you wouldn't agree in the beginning but you'd say yes with the promise of buying a house by the beach in the future. And all the other domestic things in marriage life portrayed in a book, or films."

It almost looked like she was high, he thought. But he enjoyed this. No, he loved it. He loved watching her drifting off to her bizarre world of hers, saying everything she wanted, taking him into her thoughts behind her eyes. He observed that she liked to play with her hair once she was in too deep, curled it around her finger like a spiral and once she let it off, it would form small curls at the end of her hair. He thought she looked pretty, without realising so.

"I imagine we would lead a very passionate life, we would create art every day, we would make love in every room in the apartment and all the kind of passion," But then suddenly her sentence stopped in a cliff hanger.
"But?" George was caught way too deep into her thoughts now he curiously wanting, waiting for her to continue.

"But, I'm not sure whether it would last." She said with inaudible sigh, as if it brought her back to the reality. There was some part of him that withered, realising that was not something that he wanted to hear, but nevertheless, at the back of his head, he knew that it was probably true.
"Fuck it." He said hastily, not with anger but almost with heavy ounce of determination to proof it wrong.
It shook her off from her narrated daydream, "I can propose to you now and we'll get married." There was a sudden hit that at first he thought was joking, but the more words flowed through his mouth and sunk in, the more he felt like he was not - he meant it.

"Are you going to propose me now?"
"Do you want to get married with me?"
"Is that your proposal?"
Everything seemed to fall on to each other so fast. A mixture of dare, and a little bit of truths. The next thing she knew, he was on his knees. "Will you marry me?" He asked, sounded surprisingly sincere.

Becca stopped playing with her hair, now frozen, fixated into his hazel eyes. This guy is crazy, she thought. But for some strange reasons, whatever it was, the affirmative word fluttered through her mouth, and as if for reassurance she repeated it once more with soft exclamation point, "Yes!"

He smiled and immediately took out a pen out of his pocket. "Give me your hand," He said almost impatience. She reached out her left hand to his safety, and with his pen he drew a diamond ring with both of their initial in the middle of her ring finger.

"I'm going to marry you, Rebecca Isabelle Rowe." He said it with absolute certainty, and oddly, she did not even have the need to object, or question the authencity in any kind of form. This idea might seem crazy, they both probably would run to the arcade in a minute and win a plastic ring and tell both of their parents right away. They might change their minds in the next two hours, or believed the whole proposal was a joke, but whatever it would be, that moment, for some strange reasons, they both felt as if they have found whatever they had been looking for.

They exchanged glances as smile rose on both of their faces like flower that blossom in the Spring.



It is at that moment when the screen fades to black and the credit rolls.

---

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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