The sounds made by world filled my ears.

Of unseen bird in infinite cage called sky.

Of transparent wings of a fly.

Of each inhale, dan exhalation inside the lungs of a dog.

Of fart that comes out from running machine.

Of each romantic sigh on the honeymoon of new couple frogs

In the night

When i stay

In the day

When my job taken away

To old to stay home

To broke to be out of home

Feel phony in doing the work

Feel apathy in not doing so

To be at house, that's never feel like home

Beam carved on my lips

As beautiful scenario of the wolrd appear in my brain

Send a threatening happines

Makes my heart talk stutter

Then sound of the world appear

As the scenario film inside of my brain disaapear

Make my mind blind

My lips back to its horizontal natural shape

My heart start to talk clearly

In inaudible voice

Only the sound of the birds, fly, dog, running machine, and new couple fo frogs that i could hear.

I ducked my way.

in school

in public

in workplace

in shoping mall

in rock concert

in life

I shouldn't say, a joke about,

their education

their culture

their interest

their succes

their faliure

their problem

their solution

their life

If i didn't obey

I will pocked,

stoned

prisoned

stabbed

poisoned

peeled

burned

crucified

Yeah, i life outside of mental hospital

outside of jail,

in the middle of sane citizen

That's why i always ducked on every way.

Crying dog,

where are you?

You got beaten up?

Not eaten for a week?

You just broke up?

Or never had sex since strolling in this street?

Crying dog,

where are you?

I've been searching all over.

Chewing all pills of disorder.

Gummies replaces whiskies,

my body not as though as i wish.

Nothing of these subsatnces can inebrtiate me forever.

As dense smoke that dance in my lungs,

but lose its colour when it's time to fly to a bright sky.

Crying dog,

where are you?

I heard your cries.

But, couldn't find from where it emanate.

So, I lay down as my eyes gradually forget the colour and shape of a bright sky.

In the dark silent place.

Isolate from the sounds the world made.

Then,

I heard your cries, more audible when im alone.

Sorry for asking you,

"Where are you?"

Still standing, not quite steady, but lift up from the ground.

His integrities are much more than his capabilities.

One foot dangling, mulling, not sure whether it’s going fell to the ground or stick with his bodies.

He reminds me, a story of a little chicken. She was a new born chicken, with all feathers shaved. Two legs tied thigh on a rope. She screamed, begging for her life in language that man whom approach her failed to understand.

The man takes the rope that tied her legs. He Swung her in the air, while having an unclean raspy laugh. Broke one of her legs, left the others dangling, only a single touch of an index finger, could separate her legs form her body. It’s in the state of dilemma.

The man released her after she 99% wounded. Kicked her to the graveyard of a man.

She looked up, not quite sure what she could do with her legs. She got no chance to climbed up, and live life as a handicap chick.

Strangely, knowing that sooner, or later the ground will fell over her. She still standing with one leg, looked up, unmoved her wet bare bodies.

This is how I see, a life of a though man in everywhere, in everyway.

Don’t be silly to write it quickly

Don’t write what you just read in books, or what you heard form others.

Otherwise writing a story will be like writing an essay. Searching for words somewhere inside your heads library. Yap, might be rich of worldly information. Unfortunately, poor of your own vision.

With such devices, don’t make friends with paper, pen, or throne of novels.

Go to Intellectual discussion club, where you can find the rest of your kind.

Probably, debating about the place where we live, wether it is flat or round. Who knows? Clarity never arrives in argument that based on outer information, Internet, pictures, scriptures.

You know in the first place. It’s not about getting, A, B, C, degree, or certificate.

It’s not about got perceived as cool as Kurt Cobain

Admired as tough as Hemingway

Adored as famous as Benington

If these are the point, these are the joy. Then you know you’ll quit life, before nature told you so, just like they did, when you've achieved what you’ve set for yourself.

People will shout your glory, while you tangled up in misery.

If you listen to your being carefully. It’s always about the flow.

Let it carries you, till you hardly recognize who you are in the middle of the story.

Being possessed by something greater than you is what I call “The process of making art.”

The art of life!

Sometimes some beautiful people gave you an example.

Sometimes they walked on this earth.

Jesus Christ, Shree Krishna, Socrates, and  Son of King in India who's bartered his certain glory with uncertain lifes in the forest .

That’s the process of making art! Singing with unmoving lips! Dancing in battlefield! Silence in Noisy places!

The beauty shall remain, even when the works aren’t there. What a great art!

Just watch folks, every state of mind and feelings flows out to your papers. Manifest in different characters, different scenes, different conflicts, and different endings.

Never hope the flow of yesterday will take you again the next day. New flows are coming. Just like the streams of eternal river. Stretch your ten fingers, vomit your words, with no bid. Play the music, with words as your notes. `

Never wear an armor or controller. Set everything that you owned free, just like God did. Cause you’re the God of your story.

God never cares about humans personal wishes. All creatures are the same for him. So why bother about the death of thousand humans? while trillions of plants, and animals were killed for humans to lives.

In your story. Give your character a lesson, not a consolation. When there’s no struggle, there is nothing to be told.

Let them show you their great adventure, and you just watch! Even when fingers are moving, and ass’s trying to find correct position.

Do not bind when you have to kill your characters, You’re more than just one character. Let your fingers dances on the keyboard, blast every words.

But before you play it, don’t forget your meals, folks.

Dream, when we’re  half asleep, either with closed or opened eyes.

Life, when dream's absences, either with our vision hidden, or seen by others.

I dream, just to escape life that’s there with me. Desiring the tomorrow’s while all that’s worth living — happening right now.

The works of today, just for the sake of hope that I’ll be showering with mirth, and virtue at the indefinite future.

Why do I try to escape myself?

Why do I betray the one whose been working, rather loving the one who’s just an image?

Dream stung me like heroin. Even worst, cause I don’t have to find a dealer to inject it. Takes away life of mine. Put me in endless running race, with only one blurry eyes opened. The others still closed. Dreaming in it sleeps.

First, kills the body. But wait!

The body will kill itself naturally.

To futile to be killed by Effort.

A professional keep their hands clean.

Lets kidnap the mind!

Don’t try to rape it, you’ll get addicted, even if you do just once.

When you’re secretly making love with it. Congratulation!

You’re on the treadmill. Now Run! With no hope arrives at finish.

Unless you stop owned by something, otherwise it will never solved.

The tougher enemies, emotion.

It switch your direction, blocks your way to freedom.

Not by wall, but labyrinth.

Leads you into multiple junctions with no walls on the wrong ways. .

Professional Killer realized, the wall of labyrinth just made by cotton.

There is no point in finding the right way.

Reset the point, then move, emotion dies.

Something last got left, cause we’re a killer.

Our soul may tortured by hell fire.

We have no tools to kill anymore, no guns, no knife, no bare hands, no ideas.

So let it be!

If soul divine and eternal, fire has no power to touch.

If it is not, then it’ll get preyed by fire. Till we got nothing left.

Sounds scary.

But set you free.

Nothing to be owned.

Nothing to be hurted by anything.

I dreamed about holiday.

Not in Spain

Not in London

Not in Chicago

Not in India

Not in Kuta

I dreamed about holiday.

In here, on the green grass

Sorry, for all beautiful places

Sorry, for most visited places

I don’t want to be a tourist, even when I found myself in the strange place.

                           I dreamed about holiday.

                           Not hiking

                           Not swimming

                           Not tracking

                           Not singing

                           Not dancing

                           Not eating

                           Not drinking

                           Not Fucking

                           Sorry, Mr. Tourism Minister

                           I got fat of activities that you offer to me.

                           Sorry, Mr. Tourism Industries

                           I could hardly satisfied by such services that got into me like food, then passed through me like shit.

                           Just press the flush, then it's gone forever.

I dreamed about holiday.

Laying down on the grass.

Forget about,

My job

My relationship

My whisky

My car

My clothes

My face

Myself

If you dreamed such holiday

Come and visit

Not with money, only God’s blessings.

Alone With You or Them

I like being alone, even when people are around.

They can mocks, chuckles, spittle, and the best of all, isolate.

I love for being not assailed by such outer demanding.

Just like my four legged friend. Keep barking with his ill damaged throat. Knowing it can be the death of him. It is better dies in expression rather than lives long cuddle with each others in repression.

You know? It’s stressful to dances in the strange crowd. But it will be easy to dances alone, while a bunch of people watching.

I’m not consider myself special.

I just prefer unmoved by the wave of the crowd, but moved freely according the flow of my own being.

I’m not glorying my aloness by claiming “I love being alone!” To people, while whiskies, cigarettes, heroin, and cocaine spreads all over my table, accompanies me.

Just because nobody are around you, it doesn’t means you’re alone. Just because everybody are around you, it doesn’t means that you’re not alone.

Loneliness is sickness

Aloness is boundless

I’m still alone, while being with you or them.

Two entities from the same species, entwine their bodies. Kiss each other’s lips, necks, breasts, bellies, genital organs. Float away into earthly heaven climax.

Here’s a baby, a young boy who’s confused about his identity. Looks up with eyes of innocence to both man, and woman in the age of their maturities.

Deep down he knows, that he was just white sticky, a bit smelly liquids that hide in the thing behind his father pants. Liquids that exist because all kinds of meals his father throws to his appetite.

His mother is just a receiver, just an entrusting place, for a little while. Which provide the same things as they provide him out here. Shelter, foods, and drinks.

And there she goes, another new born baby, his little sister.

“So what’s the authorities that makes himself theirs?”

His parents couldn’t know that all their babies are made by plants, animals, milks, and other ingredients on this planet, so as themselves.

Nothing is you.

Nothing is yours.

Everything is already here, and belong here.

“Huuuh,” gasps the boy. “I never know what I am.”