Diadem Constelatio

tabernacle69

03-10-2020 12:32

Diadem Constelatio

It's not the matter of time of how long you have been live.

It's the matter of, how you live that long.

I've been growing up on someplace elsewhere that you might call it different than mostly general people are.

Correct, that place is a special school that could only be entered by the kids whom having a highly level of intellectualism—plus, highly intuitive portion.

We call it the bureau. Back then—my fella and I are living it good when we got to attend into that school. But don't say it cool, hence, it ain't cool at all—with some psychopaths placed above on the upper level of our bureau?

I presume, that is totally not a cool thing.

I think, till' now—I haven't properly explains it to you, what is actually the bureau that i've always mentioned beforehand. One thing for sure, this bureau are located in the western part of Java, in... Indonesia.

Well, the bureau is a place, a place that withhold some kind of a highly functioning kid just like I told you before. It's a bureau—a home—for most of us, where anything in this world that happened to us are being considered by the people who are working in the bureau.

You might think that the bureau is some kind of an orphanage, or prison, you might.

Well, it's not.

It's not an orphanage, nor a prison—because most children here still got their parents behind. Okay, this bureau is perhaps a foster care. Now, the reason of why I wrote this kind of writing—is much simpler, kid.

It's to feel alive. A love to write down thought has been a basic lesson that they teaches it for us, for the kid in the bureau. Henceforth, I write this story.

I admit, that journey brings us onto another part of this universe that mostly, we did not realize.
. . . .

Every single day, I take my breath for meeting a larger version of myself. Analyzing, deducting, wrongly assuming on every subject I face. Being critical was also a part of it, being hated by the reality, is also, i frankly say, is the most bitter part of it.

There's no joy of inviting your hope to be the solution of those hectic life-problems, trust me kid.
. . . .

I often envy, my time for the people? are often bigger than my time for me. Than the people time for me. Thats being said, and it's been sad. In another word, every single piece of living—I'm being a vagabond looking for a rare quality of lover for me to share a bit of my little heart.

Sadly, my last love has passed away. Million memories banished, away in sorrow. I am trembling—seeking for my lost utopia. But nobody listen, nor they care, and it takes years that long to found another life-partner.

I sit, and listen back to my old sayings in the bureau, I'm keeping it close when it comes to life memories. I kept searching—dragging myself down to the fast-paced-living. I know I couldn't compare having her in my life.

Even when she says "I'm not a selfish to be a little selfish."

You might know me, but you don't see me. Really, if you see me, you would leave me behind and get back along with your businesses.

• ♦ • ♦ • ♦ •

Nowadays, its been that hard to find a meaningful people—with their game placed along in their hands? I couldn't resist that the last option I've had—is to travel into another journey where there are no people worshipping their so called high-tech living.

Years passed away, the crowd shouted my name for being a role that they had a little or bigger belief that I'm a kid of fortune in a bloody nation show. The rich asked, the poor asked, and that's the way of the living.

I've seen the longest bridge of social stratification, fellas. I don't do the living for money, religion, spiritualism achivement nor a self-appeal bragging session.

I live for a life partner, that love story where there are a person in your life, smiling over yours, and sometimes, they love to listen to you—not much, just a bit, but they listen carefully.

They dare holding your hand, accompanying you facing your own death. Lastly, I confess, I've been a bad person in talk, because only compliment I shout to please people.

But if you really, really, or desperately, have interested in me, you'll found me better only when I write down things. Only when you sit, next to my ass.

• ♦ • ♦ • ♦ •

Another fine day,

I see that our bureau enroll their registration program for the new semester. On the day where the event is being held, I saw several cars coming and parked across the road of the bureau.

That was afternoon in May around 1999, I remarkably remember that memories under my own neck.

The street feels windy, the weather is just fine—but above, be shown a cloudy skies, rag, a bit too chill to the bone. I was on the third floor, staring, just doing it. It could be seen, not so far away from where i stand, varying from Rolls Royce, Mercedes, AUDI, VolksWagen, Cadillac, Chrysler, Dodge, even a cheap (for that year) Ferrari enzo appears on the back side of a corvette.

But cars like Toyota, is also seen parking on the road. What a day! Such a pleasing view of social stratification—me said—alone, bubbling on my brain.

But my eyes goes to a Land Rover, a jeep that has been well-modified. Such a badass! There, there, I see a girl is coming out, walking... Eloquently—and on that moment, a process going thru' my mind.

I exhale deeply, making a body language that was different than i usually did—I see her brown... wavvy hair—with bright eyes—using converse, a black and white converse, a Levi's—a well matched Ralph Lauren's long sleeve shirt (probably? I DON'T KNOW, i was just intuitively guessing around), and a navy coloured shirt.

Well, there I go, pal.

There I set my little devious grin, under the shadow that was poured by the 4 p.m sun in that afternoon.

That girl down there has speculatively made me speechless, I behave but I smile continously—I am being aware of my own existence that time, keeping it cautiously, perhaps later I'm wrongly behaving.

Suddenly, third floor felt like heaven. Just an info that I'm above the psycho floor in this bureau.

Down there, be heard somebody named Sastra is playing the piano, uh... He and his Jerry Martin tone are completely melodious. One of my past, too. I tell you later about Sastra. — Now, I walked down the stairs, on the second floor, I mind nothing, it doesn't spook me, nor shocked me—not ordinarily.

• ♦ • ♦ • ♦ •

On the first floor of the bureau, I stopped. I stop twice and standing still—a flashes of the girl who were just coming out of that jeep is clinging on my mind, making me wonder to prove that I'm wrong, that it's not a Ralph Lauren, it's maybe Tommy Hilfigger or just a bloody GAP shirt.

The bureau sounds noisy in that noon, the backyard I looked far isn't as usual as it was, it now full of ladies and gentleman, speaking, standing, eating their tart cake in a small plate that was provided by our host, Mrs. Iskandardinata, the owner of our bureau.

• ♦ • ♦ • ♦ •

For those who wonder what kind of architectural is the bureau might look—here's some short explanation, its a big house in Bandung, Paris Van Java—with Dutchman's style, four floor, and an old and broad backyard for the pupil to meditate—with charcoal colored floor, with bloody wooden furniture everywhere, the wall color was painted with a shady broken white color, more like a yellow teeth color.

And oh,

With yellowish lamp that now is starting to light the room... i believe that yellow lamp's located everywhere.

After that, I embrace my self like I'm singing the best is yet to come. But no, what I need to do is—I need to stay sharp and smooth. Looking on that lady with a pearl necklace on her soul—or the lady over there with a diamond ring, I'm giggling that the rich Indonesian society is usually goes way too great with those American dreams and stuffs.

A prove that westernization is a huge influence on the nation of Indonesia.

My predilection was right, it's the enrollment event—starting from the kid with a nerdy face, psycho face, flat face, suspicious face, fortune face, indigo face, prodigy face, schizophrenic face, or anything mimic or face.

There, there—I walk swiftly between the crowd, hell, it was more like a party than a procedural event. Yeah why? the family atmosphere is initially created to engage the guest that has just coming into our place.

I see several parents are sitting and writing on a blank paper, I know its a bio-data paper that required to be filled for their son or daughter that will enter the bureau—some other are sitting down, talking and eating the other menu in their small plate.

Everything looks so busy, I say, how do you wanna go with yourself in a crowd full of business?

• ♦ • ♦ • ♦ •

I ask myself once again, and again. Even the bureau's room is spacious, it's still felt that it was like a party or something—a party in an old European styled building called the bureau.

If you think that five hundred square meters isn't well satisfying, then this one will provide you a thousand square meters, a hectare of land filled with joy and happiness.

Sometimes, prejudicial are everywhere—well basically, the people business. I am way too enthusiast that afternoon, but no making me a fool by running randomly like what the junior kid does.

I pick my own string and sit in some potential chair to see whose comin' from the front door of the bureau and cautiously lookin' on every part of it.

I sit for a while...... Breathing, and I see her coming through the front door.

I looked that she was accompanied by a lady that looked like her mom, and she was....

••✡••

Agnosticismo