Prose & Poetry

welcome home, starling

you are safe now

Tabula Rasa

Tabula Rasa

"Blessed are the forgetful, for they get the better even of their blunders." — Friedrich Nietzsche

Do you still love to gaze out from your apartment’s windows?

The smell of scented candle you light every time you got back from a very long day—sometimes it’s lavender, sometimes vanilla, and some other times cinnamon; your habit of dimming down the light of your living room in order to let the light pollution outside shines up your room instead—they are bright enough, you reason; or maybe, the way you would take a can of beer and sit by the window sill while deeply sighing.

You know, I don’t remember any of them.

You whose call used to be my nocturnal habit; you, whose birthday notification showed up on my social media—one that you probably never use anymore—notification just the day before yesterday; you whose birthday my personal smartphone assistant still remind me of—you asked me about it once, I said that it was to accommodate my poor memory regarding people’s birthday; you whose laughter would fill up my entire room for the whole night before silence swallows them all.

“I hope you could find it too.”

Those were your last words you mutter right a moment before everything disappears.

Just the night before, our sleep was not like how it used to be. Both of us tried to close our eyes to naught; what sent us to sleep was our tiredness of trying to sleep, ironically.

Morning came, and birds tweet to each other; the door to my castle was open, and gone were you with all the things related to you. All that was left were small fragments of things: the pillow you used to sleep with will forever remember the shape of your head; my blanket you forcefully claim will surely still store some warmth of yours with it; my phone that will painfully reminds me of you every year, because I’m not a tech savvy and it’s way too much of a hassle to remove it.

Things around me will always remember you, but not me. I won’t remember the way you tie your hair; the way you smile as you eat my overcooked egg while bitterly saying that you should cook breakfast instead—which you never do; the way you drag your feet as you got back and start using me as some kind of support.

And then, you’re gone.

You took everything away the moment you left through the door, hugging tightly every single memories so they don’t spill on my floor. Typical you, I thought; taking extra steps in order to keep things.

Ah, if you’re here you must be very angry at me for saying those things.

“What did you even mean by that? Have you ever looked at yourself before saying those things?”

We would have a small fight; words will be absent from our mouth for a few minutes. Before long, we will laugh it off and grab some ice cream from our refrigerator.

But of course, I don’t remember those kind of thing.

After all, this is the ending on my part; the epilogue to the prologue of each our own overarching books. A new beginning will start tomorrow; I think a small food stall I have never set foot into might make a good start. Hopefully, it won’t taste like you.

———Not that I can remember them.

Cold War

Cold War

farewell to a city

farewell to a city