Unreliable Narrator

Coinciding a Happy Ending

noreply@blogger.com (Amel Anniza) — Sun, 05 May 2013 19:48:00 +0000

It is nobody's fault that I choose to be alone. All my life, this is what I know and these recent months simply heightened such conviction.

The more people I see, the stronger is my disconnection. I require no human contact nor constant communication. My best is this: late night typing when the town is asleep, classical piano playing on the radio, and words my only friend. They rejuvenate me.

I spend my days studying early 1900s English poetry, avoiding rhymes, some TV shows, continuous reflections, and writing here and there. People and their noise irk me so much that I want to shut the whole world out of my sight.

Often I stare at the wall outside my window, its broken white stained with traces of heavy rainfalls, imagining invisible ghosts playing their merry music. I like it like this. No one to question me, no obligations to anyone but myself. The only thing occupying my brain is refreshing my lexicons with synonyms and queer phrases.

Nothing can be better.

The money I earned from teaching is enough to support me for one or two more years. No worries of insufficiency. And the sadness from wishing for my true love has long evolved into acceptance — that I met him twice in my dreams. A glimpse of how it feels to have the perfection of requited love. Something too fantastic to be real.

Searching for him should be a waste — when I preserve him in my eternal memory. He is my only, and no one else has access to this privacy. Years have matured me to treasure the present without looking back to my past.

Loneliness leads me to thriving creativity, and this is where I long to be: unspoiled by investigations, undivided in my company.

Monday, May 6, 2013, 1:48 – 2:28 AM

Illustration by Sabrina Garrasi.

Intangible

noreply@blogger.com (Amel Anniza) — Sun, 05 May 2013 18:46:00 +0000

Must I run —

away from you?

Far, far into the wilderness

where heat orchestrates its leafy clime

and crime is nowhere to be found

Because after all is devoured,

the intangible subsides —

and to deconstruct coincidences

is tampering with loveless Angels' wit

So let us quit —

before this too destructs

and there shall be no more jubilation

from our solitary hearts

Because the piano narrates

catastrophe in my harried mind

and all the lushness of my antiquity

will never correspond to your morrow

My disciplined Muse does not

reorder companionship twice

Enslaved, I have come to realize

the absoluteness of my place

Because you are hurt,

collision, captivity — the entailment

of injurious thoughts and maladies

Without, I regain swift Clarity

May I request to be lonely?

Monday, May 6, 2013, 12:05 – 1:39 AM

Romeo

noreply@blogger.com (Amel Anniza) — Sun, 05 May 2013 16:56:00 +0000

was made of glass,

cut into little trinkets of stars,

the shiniest.

When he died ever so blandly,

his infantilized cunning burst and cursed,

droning down

in nightmares, dreams, suspicions —

lava was his molten blood;

curiosity his bones.

I could almost taste it —

his velocity volcanic:

wordless mouth staring in clumsy elegance.

In a confidential flow he begged,

a messenger of things untold —

all his disguise rumored

the tuning of black-and-white clouds.

Paradise issued the errors of his charm

through a revelation of aversion —

then came three hundred

sixty five afternoons,

the shattering of his legend

betwixt soft curls and cruelty.

I was his Wednesday;

he could almost heal me —

in an atlas of

an unmade man,

trapped by Destiny's glue, true, untrue.

Thursday, April 25, 2013, 12:38 AM –

Sunday, May 5, 2013, 11:51 PM

To a Drafty May

noreply@blogger.com (Amel Anniza) — Sat, 04 May 2013 13:55:00 +0000

May halts my rain and leaves me

with nothing to yearn. Water

is where I breathe — pouring contemplations

when no one else is there to blame.

Now I am a container for emptiness,

stranded in a game of waste, tossing adrift,

wild and alone.

Is this not the fineness

I have been searching for —

a near-equilibrium?

But Contentment is a tricky pit.

It offers fullness in too many barren threads.

And I am never one

to obtain what I do not deserve.

Love thins after a while,

gorging for a fattening outcome.

Here is Devastation where I become:

the egoist confined, enthroned

in an excess of yellow dissatisfaction,

neglecting her birds of prey.

Saturday, May 4, 2013, 8:20 – 8:48 PM

Break Glass

noreply@blogger.com (Amel Anniza) — Wed, 01 May 2013 15:27:00 +0000

After false love, decomposition occurs.

Sour tea keeps me alive —

microbes charging

in a kaleidoscope of rueful inebriation.

I am preserved. The creamy pet

clasping to my itch for its artificial warmth —

and how about a sweet choke

of Wallace's foreign cab story?

There is this color that I cannot explain,

sort of crying, somewhat faint,

like sadness, but not in dews of delicacy.

Hunger is a savior, pitying me,

granting another five minutes to freedom.

So many contemplations,

so much of me running from life

to abide by the lawlessness of creativity.

Blocking insecurities, thriving for imperfection,

I stray like a dog forsaking its home —

for there are verses, madness, and

many forms of compensational placebos.

Sunday, April 28, 2013, 1:04 AM –

Wednesday, May 1, 2013, 10:24 PM

Song of Bones

noreply@blogger.com (Amel Anniza) — Wed, 01 May 2013 13:14:00 +0000

The insomniac dreams

of consecrating her bones to soft powdery puff.

Sleep loves her for half an hour.

An unlit twist declines to swallow her whole.

She is ivory. The rooster strikes his riotous pose

wooing the dawn. At three

everything becomes Perdition once more.

Her tiresome utterance runs around in her head,

bedazzled yet unwilling. Wasteful and wakeful,

she fights not to be more insane. Are there

prayers quiet enough to reconstruct peace?

But is there an unconditional God?

One that is most generous without the need

for idolatry. One that rewards a moderate sinner.

Is there Heaven without the threat of Hell?

And when she reeks of death again,

everyone echoes disagreement.

Her conscience is a disease —

she is always in the wrong.

Wednesday, May 1, 2013, 6:30 – 8:07 PM

Against Literal Thinking

noreply@blogger.com (Amel Anniza) — Wed, 01 May 2013 11:14:00 +0000

NEVER take my words seriously.

This blog is subjective, not scientific, or academic, or consequential. Everything I write is experimental: It only exists in my mind, never tangible or tested, not the slightest bit truthful.

My mood is constantly CHANGEABLE.

I never adhere to consistency. Repetitions bore me and when something does, I flee. There is no fun in attempting to be the same character each day. What you see of me this minute will not hypothetically be the same in the next minute. Get used to it.

Questions are EXASPERATING.

Thus, whatever it is about me that puzzles you, expect to stay unenlightened. I do not welcome accusations, criticism, misinterpretations, and most certainly not queries. There is no need for explanations. Let go.

Call me UNKIND.

Because I am. More precisely misanthropic. I avoid human contacts as much as possible and dislike redundant communications. Being alone suits me best. Loneliness is my Muse.

LITERAL THINKING foils my whim.

And my whim never enjoys to be analyzed. I majored in English literature, have been reading novels since 1989, have been writing since 1991: All of this favors imagination over facts. I write compulsively, mindlessly, aimlessly. For sheer self-indulgence, nothing more.

All the reasons I titled my blog Unreliable Narrator.

Wednesday, May 1, 2013, 4:56 – 5:36 PM

Frustrations

noreply@blogger.com (Amel Anniza) — Wed, 01 May 2013 09:48:00 +0000

Remember me: not for these lines,

the frail imitations of Plath, Sexton, and Parker.

Not the replacements of simplicity

with pretentious quaintness. Not the intended,

but the aura wrapping fabrications

in lonesome steadiness.

The Godless faith of returning to Death.

The savagery of being alone.

There is detachment you misidentify,

the inhuman capacity to befit an anomaly.

My thoughts unsuitable for your court;

my tongue too venomous for your kind.

There is no weight to my words.

What worth is there to your world?

Your untrained eyes sicken —

like a congregation of Fools kneeling

before one unwise. Explanations uttered

yet meanings crucify. I am your failed yesterday,

the thing you most overlooked.

Discontinuation that drifts;

drafts that refuse to reach a resolution.

Wednesday, May 1, 2013, 4:10 – 4:41 PM

Toxicity

noreply@blogger.com (Amel Anniza) — Mon, 29 Apr 2013 10:18:00 +0000

Your innocence saved me from Boredom —

while my distemper crippled you.

Emotions unabridged,

I am the fountain you refuse to sip

for its side effect may cause somewhat of an addiction —

all dirt, never the progressive kind.

But where am I going, where do I turn?

To crystallize in a sea of indigo salt,

somewhere far you cannot influence.

No more persuasions,

nor pointless implications of positivity.

Gleams of Sun, too mighty to disagree,

curate my circumstances —

when instead I only long to flee.

Only lull that I seek, the restive effect of a full stop.

Not this brightness that burns,

modes of civilizations that swirl in a dizzy calligraphy.

I am the conclusion of dusk —

nearing dark but not exactly a delusion.

Monday, April 29, 2013, 4:31 – 5:11 PM

Darling, Darling You

noreply@blogger.com (Amel Anniza) — Sun, 28 Apr 2013 14:31:00 +0000

Clouds of smoke burgeoning in my skull —

knocking three times,

their pain aches for some happy pills —

paracetamol-dependent after thirteen years.

Dreams are flimsy black —

populated with unfulfillment but never your song.

I guard Solitude with moons of instruction,

a mantra to break your sticky spell.

What else is there to do?

There are stories of us to re-read,

some nostalgic seal, but look:

Everywhere still feels like Despair.

Twitchy sparrows choir voraciously during midday;

Sunlight mocks in disarray.

All I see is people, shapes, and voices in a circus of sepia.

They motion in one gigantic pause while I

study the reflection of pine tree tops

over a dirty, discouraging screen.

Honey moistens my sore throat; music rewinds.

I bathe myself in stark Stupor, standing in a crowd.

There is no consolation after you —

and my strength is running out.

Sunday, April 28, 2013, 8:39 – 9:20 PM

Concession

noreply@blogger.com (Amel Anniza) — Wed, 24 Apr 2013 19:26:00 +0000

You know how you twine

in circular trends among the glow-worms

humming their sorrowful lullaby?

Like a corpse recapitulates from its ashes —

and you remerge —

your insubstantial physique levitates

into the thick damp stratosphere —

the second Milky Way from another day.

Even when we miss each other this much,

we wield diamond-like boundaries, lethal,

and willing to drain our wells off their wits.

With each dawn,

we fashion another layer of mask,

acting accordingly to our supposed characters.

You the medium of Calmness;

I in my dissipating Passion.

Hands clinging to nearby imitations,

and decisive hearts

upholding the tract of this golden Peace.

Wednesday, April 24, 2013, 11:56 PM –

Thursday, April 25, 2013, 12:33 AM

Dubious Exclamation

noreply@blogger.com (Amel Anniza) — Tue, 23 Apr 2013 16:22:00 +0000

I dub myself a Sociopath

for my lack of emotions

and the practice of Stoicism:

merciless but not nearly missing a heart.

When I cry, it serves a habit

to rinse off this pathological Depression

that fluctuates like a ballerina in a music box.

I am new afterward, unable to recognize

love, hurt, or synonyms of lies.

Humans are my playthings;

their reactions an interesting experiment

I observe with such disinterest it begins to bore.

Can't everyone try harder to be a drama queen?

To make life more movie-like.

Disquiet should be inspiring once in a while.

Thus, I distance myself from relationships

and turn to smelling vocabularies

and testing hazardous chemicals with my tongue.

Tuesday, April 23, 2013, 10:49 – 11:16 PM

Absolution

noreply@blogger.com (Amel Anniza) — Tue, 23 Apr 2013 15:35:00 +0000

Starlet, my pretty, each raindrop

that wets your frail ashen face is a proof

of how much I have loved you

with a most everlasting kind of love

untouchable by Time.

Far-reaching, you are the chill

tingling through my bones,

the only familial tie I cherish to weep

in a lightheaded Fantasy — while you,

you disappoint me,

shining in your dimmest fright.

Wingless I fly from galaxy to eternity —

as the littlest twinkles of Sun

entangling your circuit. Like a fruit bat

you dangle down the hollow atmosphere

stepping upon nowhere.

A splinter of your ribs blooms

into where I begin and a fizzy forlorn smile

evolves onto me —

when the World turns off her light

and nothing else will do.

Friday, August 10, 2012, 5:19 PM –

Tuesday, April 23, 2013, 10:25 PM

Electric Flamingo and Jelly Kisses

noreply@blogger.com (Amel Anniza) — Tue, 23 Apr 2013 13:49:00 +0000

Needs diminish into placidity;

urges simplify

Days deadening like electric jellyfishes

billowing through a black, black sky

How purplish — their flesh-colored

energies modulating in and out

Age lengthens most slowly —

forgoing the synthesis of anti-society

I the Weeping Willow cruising

from desperate weathers to

a hidden door at the end of death,

discovering a most frightening beauty,

secretive yet perversely ordinary

Is it rebirth I shall find beyond —

or the Fury of the afterlife?

Believing is easiest,

while disbelief suffers of a choice

The quest dies as the body disintegrates

into the smallest fractures of the self:

lessons that never teach,

screams that do not wake

Tuesday, April 23, 2013, 7:50 – 8:14 PM

Image is a screenshot from Hemlock Grove episode 1 "Jellyfish in the Sky".

Witnesses

noreply@blogger.com (Amel Anniza) — Mon, 22 Apr 2013 13:29:00 +0000

Thrill comes without commotion,

after everyone left and all is silent.

Can you hear it?

That is Death knocking at my door,

and this is the sharpest of blade

I have been keeping for years

in my stationery drawer.

My left wrist, ripe and ready,

almost veinless, whitens

under the glow of a dusty desk lamp.

How much anguish

will an open wound spurt?

How powerful of a desire?

I have trained my brain to block pain

from all the Betrayal

they so diligently procured.

Blood is beautiful.

I have been in love with it since 1999.

But what about the witnesses —

will they cry watching

the blackening stain of Inflammation

illuminating the room

that never belongs to my heart,

this house of hatred?

Monday, April 22, 2013, 7:54 – 8:19 PM

Destined

noreply@blogger.com (Amel Anniza) — Mon, 22 Apr 2013 11:25:00 +0000

Look: I am an aeroplane

trifling around the Bermuda triangle,

heading for home but

only recover this cyclical Damnation.

They accuse me of unhappy Felony

to establish their long-standing Incapacity.

Can they not see

I am delighted to be desolate,

lonesome as a clown?

Agony is the only note I rehearse.

Sentiments trap me in a serenade

but there is no sense in that —

because every melody tastes like Drought

and actions simply render Self-Destruction.

All my good words die catching trails of Irony,

never shall they regrow.

You will not know how to contain me.

I am the strength of Insubordination,

every damage you can never endure.

Monday, April 22, 2013, 5:31 – 6:11 PM

Morphed

noreply@blogger.com (Amel Anniza) — Mon, 22 Apr 2013 08:28:00 +0000

Hello. I am your freshly-ground drug addict

with a sparkling smile feigned upon my face

and a stash of the purest morphine

in my makeup bag. Pleased to meet you.

Every sky I touch sprouts

opportunity for some lightning execution.

Today's bus transports me to

an old suicide bridge — where I enter

sacredly with red humor, feet so light,

destined to be the Devil's sacrifice.

Vehicles are only good for their violation of speed.

In my womb is the wringing of pain,

torturous as love, calling me so and again.

Must a woman surrender to her tyrant?

Perhaps when she is sane and not

so much infatuated with rude complaints.

And thus when they forget,

I am returned. To the subconscious

Demons and their violence,

growing a garden of confessional shrubbery.

Monday, April 22, 2013, 2:41 – 3:19 PM

Black Romance

noreply@blogger.com (Amel Anniza) — Mon, 22 Apr 2013 07:24:00 +0000

Tear stain sticks like dried syrup

on my palm, imbibing moist

from habitual depreciation.

What should I expect

from everyone who never loves?

Goodbye to you, and you, and you

for my planet fits only one —

where I play tea party

with Death by my side

and a noose above my head.

We pour the thickest broth of

boiling black blood

into our lovely lucent cups,

then sprinkle a pinch of Apathy.

That's Romance for you,

you and those who misperceive.

Spiders crawling down the ceiling

of this stranger's home.

Outside, solar birds

chanting alone-alone-alone

most extravagantly.

I am on a train to Adulthood,

whose last stop is

a flashback of solitary ablution —

from the town that rains cliches

all morn and oval stones

performing their shadow puppetry.

Monday, April 22, 2013, 1:10 – 2:17 PM

Origin of Mistrust

noreply@blogger.com (Amel Anniza) — Sun, 21 Apr 2013 17:47:00 +0000

Which side of Obsession

generates mistrust? One where you are.

From earth comes the dream of Untruth

and you shall rise

to nourish the colony of my deadly stare.

Here is my Quietude you so long to break

and here is the center of my Mystery.

Like an ant in its armor, I am made

of blazing Winds, ethereally stormy.

Thunder brings me sleep

and mourning Dove sings me sympathy.

I am alive in adolescence —

all paid in tragedy.

Queer number is one, odd but fulfilling.

The Mind is a monstrous hole:

You must not trust it.

Fondness emanates from its mist,

when it is only self-inflected chronology.

You love me not; you love me never.

What seems mandatory after a while?

The forgetting of yesterdays.

Monday, April 22, 2013, 12:06 – 12:38 AM

Remittence

noreply@blogger.com (Amel Anniza) — Sat, 20 Apr 2013 19:39:00 +0000

The Night
leases her cracklings to those
who frown for no reason
but to legitimize our consequence.
I am the tail of a comet wishing to be beautiful.
Beauty moves the world, does it not?

No time to fret, or to sweat,
or to surmise the unseen parts of things.
As a Bug I drink ounces of jealousy
to recharge my battery.
Remorse is the nectar of the needy.
I am remittently the crucial.

Like a Leech losing its fight,
I grieve with the stampede of time,
leaning to relate with the common trade.
But there is no victory for the grievous.
Most existence favors largess for its cleanliness.

Sunday, April 21, 2013, 2:08 – 2:32 AM

A Dabbler's Punishment

noreply@blogger.com (Amel Anniza) — Sat, 20 Apr 2013 19:03:00 +0000

Scavenging for bits of happiness,

alone with the bruise in her alibi:

It is easy to forget these stolen words.

To meddle in some noisome stargazing

may prove worthwhile

for an irreparable introvert.

I cleanse what I cannot

in twelve hours of slumber.

The rest is gambling.

A dabbler of forwarded abstraction,

a mesh of jolly junk. Even the ideas stop.

Others stretch in double polarities —

one grim, one gratified.

Love comes a little too late.

I am too old for make believe.

They say a closed heart dooms itself.

What will I testify for an untested adage?

Mine simply rejects the living.

Thursday, April 18, 2013, 10:43 PM –

Sunday, April 21, 2013, 1:55 AM

Chronological Impulses

noreply@blogger.com (Amel Anniza) — Sat, 20 Apr 2013 16:59:00 +0000

As the archetypal middle child — alone, abandoned, misanthropic — I manage to find solitary ways to amuse myself ever since I was able to process long sentences in my brain at the age of three.

However, I do notice that these so-called hobbies never last more than a few months. I am flighty as a ghost. Nothing interests me for long. Not even a person, or a kitten! Everything is boring, you know?

These are the enjoyable activities I engaged in chronological order, starting from when I wasn't able to read — at the age of three:

Listening to recordings of fairy tales and traditional folklore. I suppose, this was what provoked my entanglement in the world of fiction.

Cut-and-paste and coloring books. I wasn't able to read, so I did stuff with my hands. It amazes me how my hippie parents allowed me to use scissors when I was only three.

Reading picture books with animals in them. Parents worked and brother started first grade, so I was alone at home with the maid. Mom taught me to read before I was four.

Reading children's novels (Indonesian translation of Enid Blyton and others). This was in 1989, third grade. My older neighbors started reading novels and I followed them.

Reading Japanese comics. We began to receive the translations in 1990, when I was in fifth grade. Titles like Candy-Candyand Doraemon. I believe I collected five racks of these comics (like five hundred?) till I was in high school.

Writing diaries. I wasn't good or interested in mingling with the neighborhood kids, so I wrote. Sixth grade, 1991.

Reading adult contemporary novels, like Michael Chricton's, in 1994. This was still in Indonesian translation.

Writing English short stories, tenth grade, 1995. Mostly based on my dreams. I truly regret losing the floppy disks. My first fiction!

Sewing and knitting Barbie clothes in twelfth grade, 1997.

Scrapbooking (fashion and recipes), college, 1998. Instead of focusing on my studies, I chose to occupy myself with magazine clippings. No wonder I quit psychology major.

Internet pen-pals. Fell into morbid depression from failing my first major, I stayed home from 1999 to 2001, doing useless things, like writing forty emails in a week to Internet strangers. I can't imagine the time-consuming effect of this.

Gardening. Got bored with pen-pals, I tried flowers. Of course, this didn't work, either.

Housing stray cats. Somehow, there were kittens and their mothers coming down from my roof. One cat got attached to living in the house and gave birth to three babies. I used to be disgusted cause the kittens sneezed often. Two died and one lived so I nursed her till she gave birth to many kittens.

From 2001 to 2006, I went back to college, two majors, finished only one. Busy with teaching from 2006 to 2007. At the end of 2007, I started writing English poems. I still write occasionally till today. Weird that this one lasts. I guess I need to find something to hold on to when I get suicidal thoughts.

Facebook notes and silly flash games in 2009.

Blogging in March 2010.

Started Polyvore dolls in late 2010. Stopped for two years, and then came back in February 2013.

Watching TV series, started with Gleein 2012. I'm too tired to waste two hours for a movie, nonetheless.

Today, I'm still blogging, writing dumb poems, and make occasional Polyvore dolls. But I don't think anything or anyone matters anymore. The older I get, the clearer it is to me that being alone suits me best. I find dead objects more fascinating than living things.

Saturday, April 20, 2013, 10:52 – 11:39 PM

Photo by Ivan Mikhaylov.

Edge of a Knife

noreply@blogger.com (Amel Anniza) — Thu, 18 Apr 2013 15:41:00 +0000

Take the pills and reload your gun
Deliberation always counts

Sometimes I wonder what it feels
to slit my vein and empty my brain —
blood coiling and recoiling
in a fluffy symphony of rosy ribbons

Pretty, isn't it?
Too magical not to try —
once, just once, like diving for joy,
plunging into Death's static black
wishing to return never
and everything is still again

Some are born with Disconnection
hanging down our tails
What is my worth to this world?
A currency of five elastic sentences,
all indignity, spun and telescopic

What's the matter, sugar —
don't you wish to rid of me
and all this talk of my bad influence?

Sunday, April 14, 2013, 1:58 AM –
Thursday, April 18, 2013, 10:35 PM

Meth Lab

noreply@blogger.com (Amel Anniza) — Thu, 18 Apr 2013 15:16:00 +0000

I am biological mechanics:

pause then play,

recording the sounds of futility,

minutes of mild Madness —

contemporary in my design.

Psychological science

justifies my irrelevance.

You take one random star,

Universe's wondrous creation,

strip the goodness

and stir some disengagement,

then you have me —

the residue left after constant misuse.

I love this narcissistic self-loathing;

it gives me superpowers.

Pride, in excess, can kill,

but also infuses the strongest Elixir.

Oh, don't they admire

my youth injection, flushing pink,

this inerasable arrogance

boiling in my spine?

I am a dance of Flame,

while you stand there dreaming

to catch the hallucination,

until my tongue burns your flesh

to needy rubies. Only regrets remain.

Tuesday, April 16, 2013, 5:07 AM –

Thursday, April 18, 2013, 10:09 PM

Civilization 2.0

noreply@blogger.com (Amel Anniza) — Thu, 18 Apr 2013 14:55:00 +0000

I lurk

among the ruins of April rain

whose inspiration infects fungi in my skin

that there is no imagination left

to tell you how I crudely feel

Can you listen to serenity,

this barbaric closeness of catatonia,

swimming around a pond of toadstools?

The heart must be a renewable resource

for mine is flickering gently to die,

to rise from the blue ashes and half violets

countering the side-effect of longing,

yet only defiance matters in a debate

of discourtesy, to kiss the faithless rose

beyond a thousand ineffectualities,

the force that binds my hands to rust

Cold as I may — you shall see how

everyone never means anything

but nervous reactions to the brain,

another chainless story of a machine

Thursday, April 18, 2013, 9:22 – 9:45 PM

Civilization 2.0 is an idea from The Simpsons, episode "Homer Goes to Prep School".