I’ve never been to Athens or Berlin, but I believe, that nothing compares to a town where your father came from. Where your grandma lives. Where people speak and you can only listen. Where the good foods are.

“Oi rang rantau nan jauah, pulanglah ka kampuang
Jan lupo yo sanak, mari kito pulang basamo…”

Betharia Sonata – Pulang Kampuang

Here I am, on my 4th year of a life-phase; another phase of being a student, another phase of running. I’m coming towards its end.

I remember when I was in my first year, I asked my friends (and they asked me back), “what major would you choose?” They answered, ( I answered,) and life happened. Now, we are asking each other more questions and more details, “what would you want to do for your final assignment?”, “when would you graduate?”, or “where would you apply right after?”

Things I can answer with: “I want to be a geologist, working at supermajor, as soon as possible. Maybe next July.”

But our questions just get more serious each day.

We never ask those basic questions anymore, like, “Are you happy?”

There’s a thin line between getting inspired and being an imitation. Have you crossed it?

There’s a thin line between adoring and being annoying.

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I did it once and it changed my life. Sorry J, I did it to you.
Now I know how it feels.

Some say code is poetry, but for me, poetry is code.

With these codes, I’ve been cheating the clear blue sky and flower on the window facing my neighborhood. I’ve been singing my betrayal and cover it as if it is only lines of Icelandic. I’ve been writing love letters to the past and the blur of future. I’ve been spilling my dreams of Socotra and its dragon’s blood trees and the rest of the world, including Turkey.

With these codes, I’ve been trying to tell you something.

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