I went to the Jakarta Couchsurfing Writing Club for the first time today. Apart from demolishing six tiny pieces of chicken wings (not quite the sensible food that one would consume when one needs to shake hands with multiple new acquaintances, I must say) and getting to know bright young individuals, I squirted this piece out based loosely on the theme “Dream Place”. It was really quite a squirt as the words came out in force and in such a short period of time that my horrible handwriting had almost died in the process.
The dream, purpose of life and all that jazz has of course plagued my mind for as long as I can remember, and hence manifested itself in the existence of this blog. And yet lately I find the whole movement, of pursuing one’s dream, to be so fluid that at this moment I’m trapped in one of those transitions of consolidating all of my previous assumptions and understandings. It is then, quite uncanny how every single person who shared their writings tonight gave resonance to my own understandings and assumptions.
So this dream came out. Not quite the school for the poor that I want to own, or the business that I want to run, or the book that I want to birth. Not even where I want to live, with whom, or any notions that the masses seem to constantly push me toward.
I titled this: Ghost in Your Pasts.
I wish to be next to you staring at Machu Picchu from the Sun Gate. Perhaps a bit torn and worn from lack of oxygen and a proper hot shower. From there we’d walk the last couple of hours, talking about everything under the hot scorching sun and nothing that actually matters to most people. I dream to be the person you’d reminisce when you tell your friends years after how the first sight of the lost city of the Incas took your breath away and gave life to the lost civilization.
I wish to be sitting in front of you when you typed your afternoon away in a small coffee shop near the corner of Little Bourke Street and Elizabeth Street. You’ll crack your knuckles and start conversing in broken English how your life never turned out to be the life that you’ve always planned it to be. Not that anyone’s ever have. And I’d smile and nod the evening away while the wind blows and the city beats its own slow and steady pace. I dream to be the person you’d vaguely remember when you take your wife and five kids to do your grocery while the waft of smell coming from the bakery reminds you of a day whiled away in a hipsters-filled coffee shop of a distant land down under.
I wish to be boiling your pot of tea after yet another tiring day working with the little kiddies. Once the dust had settled and the darkness cornered us huddled in front of the lantern, we’ll talk about the way little Tony knows how to spell afternoon with two o’s and how Rita’s parents had given up asking her to work at the farm instead of going to school. And we’d sit in silence while we write our letters to people in faraway places. I dream to be that silence presence when you look back into your time deep in the village.
You, you, you and you. And to many more of you.
Fleeting moments, flying memories.
I dream to be here. And everywhere.
Back to post-writing narration.
As the wise woman perched next to me aptly said: “You want to touch people” while I rambled on and on trying to explain, and almost justifying, the above pre-edited writing. Oh yes indeed.
This deep desire to connect, even for just a fleeting moment. Long enough to leave an imprint. Short enough to not cause calamities. The fondest memories I have of people are the ones that are at the heights of the moments. Where there was suspense in the air of what the future could still hold. When hearts were still spared from aches and the word pain only exist when you want to eat it with fromage.
A perpetual carousel of highs where there were no lows abound.
I think I just self-diagnosed myself.
Oh and hey. I’m writing again! Whoop!