Recently test result: INFP-T (Introverted 64%, Intuitive 64%, Feeling 67%, Perceiving-Prospecting 60%, Turbulent 53%). And time flies and wind blows.

I am just a person who likes art, culture, poems. Work for graphic design, illustration, make printed t-shirts. Sometimes I do painting and write a poem at the Friday night.

Thanks, maybe later.

Later.

Randomly: reading, watching podcast, daydreaming in front of bonfires, laying on the grass, smelling petrichor.

"Nocturne in C Sharp Minor" (Chopin), "Fallen Embers", "Pilgrim" (Enya), "Goodnight Moon" (Shivaree), "Shot at The Night" and "Read My Mind" (The Killers), "One Day" (Matisyahu), Sigur Rós, Helloween, Iron Maiden, U2, Radiohead, Coldplay, DeVotchka, Ennio Morricone, Loreena McKennitt, some of Russian songs, some of Swedish Folk songs, Javanese Campursari music.

All sequels of Batman, "The Pianist", "The Jacket", "Lucy", "Exodus", "Shawshanks Redemption", "Edward Scissorhands", "Modigliani".

000

"The Alchemist" (Paulo Coelho), "Perfume" (Patrick Süskind), "Faust" (Goethe), one book of Anton Chekov, Erich Fromm, sometimes I read historical books. Recently enjoying "Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind" (Yuval Noah Harari).

“What if in the world were a misunderstanding, what if laughter really tears?"
― Søren Kierkegaard

"Mumpung padhang rembulane, mumpung jembar kalangane".
― Lyric of Javanese Folk

____________________________________________________

THE BUTTERFLY MAN


/1/

He’s always number one when he pours his sadness:
The Butterfly Man without sweat, without spot of blood on his pieces of robe.
Is it caused of love, long waiting, or worrying of the slaughter;
The Butterfly Man who’s without sweat, without spot of blood, without a headband is always ready to catch, “If you can’t hope, well let me make it complete.”

And when introducing sadness, his heart always never divides:
The Butterfly Man with blemished fate actually really wants to go back to the coarse grass.
Because of the ghost that is as dodging as the time, the salty past time, or the nailed schedules; The Butterfly Man just wants to go on fast.
Without lights, without plank of street.
“I won’t deliberately take a name of street that precisely makes me afraid of.”

: He was just a dangle cocoon (between afraid of and believe in) in the mid day.
Didn’t like to argue whether born or slipped early in the morning.
Didn’t know the sun greeting or the sounds of spoiled flowers.
He was just a slip of thing in the cover between resemble and certainty;
between lie and burnt of a phenomenon.
In front of his eyeballs.


/2/

If today is a roman for him to spend, he has disavowed a title or the name of the prince.
He also doesn’t hurry just because he feels so tired,
flung away from the interval that they knew: imagining the eternity. He knows death and fluttering; and coagulates.
He, The Butterfly Man who’s out of the window never stop in just because of a piece of desk calendar with a bright dressed woman in the picture.
“I’m smarter from the beginning.”

And to him, there’s something more approving, but it is not always the park:
The virgin colored Butterfly Man who is actually tired prohibits all parts.
Because trapped by the phase, the slow matter widens, or the putrid of the end part of the rhyme;
The Butterfly Man still has to wrap. Looks speechless, looks almost die.
“I bring this piece of far away news completely for your two eyes, and I embrace it tightly.”

: From the former times he really wanted to be a song. Then become a part of velvet book.
There's nobody gets difficulty to sing it. There's no tongue needs to be defected when learn it by heart.
There’s no come and go but hate when return.
From the former times he just wanted to peep and wink between something shade and slightly rose,
between howling and empty the rest sound.
In the relative curse of the dice.

(I’m just able to watch when his pair of wings sticks onto the roof)


*I wrote this poem in 2009 (original in Indonesian) and translated to English by my friend in 2014.