longing for places I’ve never been
have you ever considered cities as living things? I do. they provide a sense of security for people, and places to belong. a spot to commemorate memory, to celebrate births. ever since I was a child, I cherished globes and maps as precious things I used to lay my finger upon. as though touching a piece of paper is equal to actually traveling there.
oh but Edinburgh, Edinburgh is an entirely different magical realm. the whole city seems to me motionless, trapped in an expensive painting in the fancy museum. and my only role is to cast a look from afar. there’s a definite border between me and Edinburgh. like I’m the outsider of whatever is going on inside the city. and even though I stand there, staring intently at the picturesque city, I would still feel like an uninvited guest, unable to go anywhere but have nowhere to go. there’s a protective aura emanated from the city, as if to remind me how minuscule our resemblance to each other is. one is the figure of perfection, and the other one is the combination of flaws here and there. there are unwritten rules for me to abide by. for setting foot in the city, I must first discard the feeling of uneasiness — a sense of having lost something unnamed, something I can’t quite grasp of. I must first feel the wholeness of myself, which I have never felt such a thing since I was born.
Bandung, my birthplace. well, as much as it seems for many others, Bandung has always been that nostalgic city. no wonder they call Bandung the Paris van Java — Java’s version of Paris. Bandung had received that title long ago during the colonial era, and everyone, be it the locals, the Dutch, or many other Europeans agreed in unison. carrying such a prestigious title should be far from easy, but Bandung successfully upheld that until today. Bandung exudes a sophistication aura, glamour, stunning, almost perfect city. although I spent about 6 years in Bandung, I have no splendid story to tell because, at that age, my memory wasn’t properly formed yet. I only recalled the cheerful me, whose smile rarely faded. it persisted to paint my face in any weather, in any condition. I visited Bandung sometime later and still couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling whenever I stroll around the city. many places I visited demanded me to recall something important but I couldn’t figure it out. probably that was the feeling of having lost memories. somewhere deep inside my brain circuits or somewhere far inside my heart compartment, the memory left unexplored, wanting to surge someday, but I couldn’t dare to do so. they’re preserved in such abstract form even with hundred of languages I will never be able to decipher.
and I wish I could hate the city I grew up with my entirety of being, but I couldn’t. it molded me into today's me, though the processes weren’t actually pleasurable and undeniably weren’t nice to think of. I can see the fragments of my reflection in the puddle of rain at the corner of the street, in the dust on top of a becak hurryingly picking up its passenger, in the not-so-crystal-clear shore. I can see my own reflection everywhere as if to mock me for having innumerable failures.
lastly, let’s talk about Norway. Norway to me symbolizes a glint of hope. I wonder what would it be like to be embraced by long solitude winter and white plain snow fill up my peripheral view wherever glance I lay upon. how would my heart react at the sight of northern light? would it beat with a such rhythmic melody that I never heard of but feel suspiciously familiar with? would the freezing cold offer me a scorching warmth instead? would I be able to find my other self there? the one whose soul is beyond free, whose step is as feathery as cloud, whose eyes never devoid of aliveness? but then again, Norway is merely a place I’m bound to be but will never reach. the improbability plummeted high to the sky, and even arctic birds laughed at my ridiculous dream. day by day, that hope, ever so slightly, slowly dissolved into particles of water. and soon they will evaporate into thin air.
but how is someplace considered a home when I barely feel any attachment to it? it feels like I have been floating all the time, unsure where to step and incapable of choosing. I have smelled so many cities’ scents, but they still appear foreign to me. as if whenever I set foot in a new city, they are all unwelcoming, seeing only the traces of my previous cities, and regard me as not qualified enough as their permanent resident. again and again, I am being left as the outcast, alienated from every place I have encountered with. I am the coin that magicians keep tossing over and over not for an evident purpose, only for entertainment.
some say home is not a tangible place, home is when you find safety in another person. I thought to myself, why would I chain myself to something fluid, ever-changing, unpredictable creature? I could claim I know every single layer of this person, and yet one day this person could become a stranger entirely. making such bonding to humans is like tying yourself into a flowing river.
but then again, this longing feeling I have been carrying every day, where should I plant them to? if neither place nor person could be the addressed receiver, then where to? do I need to unpack it, and leave it somewhere isn’t recognizable by a map? or do I need to cling tightly to this unseen shadow and acknowledge it as my companion?
we both will become each other’s lonely partners, with no way of communication, merely with presence.
