What was I doing last Friday? Coming home to you for the last time. Dreading the day I would leave you forever. And now I'm in this cursed place.
I hate it here. Everything is so far in Jakarta. A centralized country with nothing left for anyone living far from the capital city. I don't know anyone. I don't remember the streets. I don't even know their names. At night I stare at the empty lot outside my large window — oval stones at the ground, a wall with shades of white and gray, a part of the messy roof.
All I keep I will trade to have you back. Only you understand. No one else will. I won't talk to anyone, ever. No one can feel what I feel. Everyone is fake.
I miss your clean, lavish water. I miss your leaking ceiling. I miss going up to your roof when everyone else was asleep. There is no staircase in this unfriendly house. Nothing to cherish. Nothing to come home to. Nothing to contemplate. Nothing to cry for. Nothing in this nowhere. Do you miss me as much as I miss you?
Remember us, house.
Friday, July 27, 2012, 9:23 PM