JOURNAL

Here’s a Souvenir

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do not cut away my soul.


In creating, expressing, and authenticating yourself;

There exist a field of fluidity, where you can have your own process.

But if you can’t fit your process into the organic process that is the project itself, then it doesn’t do you goods. 

You have to figure out how to do what you want to do while also not fucking up somebody else’s process.


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JOURNAL, RETROSPECT

Inside a folded yellow paper,

You are an artist.

Artists are (more) curious souls who see the realm as field of creative expression, platform to create, and an endless vaults of opportunity. They know Being ; comprehend the idea that life without purpose is mere passerby of this realm.

Artists craft passions into reality and see no weakness in vulnerability; love without reservation, give their hearts completely and leave nothing on the table. They are naked and unashamed. They leave no room for pretension.

Artists choose to chase and indulged in their school of desires just so that they may authenticate Being ; by of course being a part of this cosmic wonder. Creating changes over and over ; cut this, paste that, hide this, layer that. Until changes become the only constant of a never-finished oeuvre, in which a mean to live life-that may break all forms of security.

altogether,

it’s a sensation, a blind creation

moving through your days done,

it got your heart stung <cont.>

Inside a folded yellow paper, I never had the chance to pass. 

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JOURNAL, MUSE

KATAMAMA: a little piece of Andra Matin’s mind palace

Katamama boutique Hotel is a fresh extension of the celebrated beachfront property in Bali, none other than Potato Head Beach Club. In which both projects are designed by Andra Matin

Writing this journal, I had ample amount of glee exploring the sister building of Potato Head that feels much like an oeuvre to me. 

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JOURNAL

Identity

   So tell me,

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How do we claim identity?
The earth is platform of intricate nature.

What particle authenticate being,
If nothing in this world is new?

What moulded this self-righteous creed,
To rest on the phrase “This is who I am.”


(pilot)


People seek advices before performing the act.

Whatever sound reasonable to the conscience,

will therefore be the verified voice of reason.


(desire)


There is thirst over the truth.

The unsettling heart without light,

Is screaming for wisdom.


(vulnerability)


what affirmed men’s individuality,

Is having sentiment towards one of the existing concepts.

Yet not to be falsely interpreted from being  bona fide,

men are simply being resilient.


(curiosity)


We search, we dig, we explore.

We accumulate evidences to understand,

So that we see less ambiguous vision of the realm.


Secure us seats, we’re ready to launch

Identity.


(bridging)


Confidence that fuelled self-esteem,

has somehow contoured our state of being.

As we experienced perks of comfort within.


(contentment)


And then we feel settled.

All gestures act justified.

Exploiting the self-made right we think we deserve,

which shields all filthy deeds that have turned to normalcy.


(assurance)


we stop getting curious,
stop thinking righteous,
stop searching,
for we find standard.


Mirage of the holy grail so sweet tasting we hardly see its flaw.

t1

t2

A written prose,

Tingling

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JOURNAL

The Mysterious Man

God is deep, he is deeper than any ocean, surely greater than the extent of milky way, boundless as the horizon. In every words He has said, every parables He has told, every promises He has made, there is a hidden message bequeathed neatly like a fathomless time capsule ready to unravel; if you do seek- really seek, not just by the high-standing trees above nor at the thin air of your atmosphere, search fervently- you’ll figure that the capsule is hidden just underneath you.

And the question is am I willing to dig an extra mile for it? 

Tingling

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JOURNAL

Words.

                                          I Like Words.

article-2474721-18F008D400000578-130_964x656When moments shattered to pieces like the rubble from the ruins,

the robust feelings remained at rear in form of stained ink on a paper medium.

when the zealous affairs are no longer there and one still long after its flairs,

words keep the ardour burning, as it is caressing and everlasting.

Words may not be able to completely evoke the twisted truth,

but words show the depth of relationships, and that’s all really that matters.

who cares if it is a pair of cataclysmic dynamic duo?

words can be assuring, it may also be accommodating.

it doesn’t strike like a haul, instead it’ll take one on a trip down memory lane.

going backward in between words,

there is a glimpse of silver-lining that remained as impalpable as a dream.

but on a bottom line,

as daft as they seem words without experience are simply meaningless.

TINGLING


The Heartfelt Muse

There is no sorry for Loving, all you need to do is express it.

Here is a chain of undisciplined letters that I find both intriguing and vulnerable at the same time. Take a look!

James Dean reckless love letter to Barbara Glenn.

I don’t like it here. I don’t like people here. I like it home (N.Y.) and I like you and I want to see you. Must I always be miserable? I try so hard to make people reject me. Why? I don’t want to write this letter. It would be better to remain silent. “Wow! Am I f up” 

So hold everything, stop breathing, stop the town all of N.Y.C.

untill (should have trumpets here) James Dean returns.

Don’t run away from home at too early an age or you’ll half to take vitamins the rest of your life. Wish you cooked. I’ll be home soon. Write me please. I’m sad most of the time. Awful lonely too isn’t it. (I hope youre dying) BECAUSE I AM.

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