𝔯𝔞𝔦𝔫𝔶 𝔠𝔦𝔱𝔶 𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤 🌧️🏙️☕️🚕

What is poetry if not politics? Buried deep beneath the blots of ink lie true intentions and harsh realities. A reflection of our contemporary world.

What is poetry if not a submission? A portrait in the nude. Flesh to be groped, vulnerable to a penetrative gaze.

What is poetry if not a reaping? One's mind ripped apart in fragments, strewn on parchment, thoughts to be devoured. Slow, agonizing death.

Night at the library.

Jakarta citizens have to be very grateful for the amount of effort its government put into building a cool and comfortable reading space in the entire city. One of it is the infamous Perpustakaan Cikini and PDS H.B. Jassin which are heaven for those who craving for Rp 0 place to read!

Sometimes we need poetry to endure our most painful moments for it makes everything beautiful

I cried that night, my brain could not stop remembering you as if you were the only thing that it can process clearly. Your tiny voice, your enthusiastic gestures, everything that I miss in a person. It is true that people tend to miss something when it's not around anymore. My mistakes of neglecting you frequently came from the thought that we would never be separated, whatever happened. But after your disappearance a month ago, life has never been the same.

I cried that night, my tears fell down like I had never cried before. My heart begging for your presence, for your laughter, for your humour. Hence, it was the empty air that greeted me back. The cold air of the space between us, shudder me. My head keep saying, "is it over for us?". I guess it is time to call it a day, to save energy for chasing back your shadow tomorrow.

I cried that night, so I let my intrusive thoughts win. I texted you. Begging. Asking. That cold tone of yours greeted me back.

"It is over for us," my heart said in agony.

it’s so painful to watch yourself grow cold, bitter, and resentful, even toward small, irrelevant things, when all you’ve ever wanted was just to be warm, gentle, kind, and loving.

love the way donna tartt makes richard sound so sassy in the audiobook. the closet is glass

Books in 2024

henry fucking winter

Today, I write about you.

1984 project progress (for class)