It's always the moment on the way back home, looking at the tarmac of the runway slowly transforms into a breadth of greens and tiny squares of crops; got amazed by the clouds that engulf the pinnacles of unknown mountains, feeling so unsatisfied by the temporary view of beauty when all of a sudden all you can see outside the tiny window is nothing but an endless white canvas. And you touch the tempered glass, and you feel it by your little fingers, and it is so cold as if it is being soaked in iced water, and when the frosts start to emerge like a sprawl of tiny fractures on a mirror, you start to smile because you know there is nothing wrong about going home.

About going back to the ground you used to dance on, about being mad in an infinite loop of crazy traffic jam, about speaking in the language you grow up with, about waiting in line to buy a cheap meal at the pedestrian, about gazing at the smiles of familiar yet unknown faces, about talking trash with your friends about a friend who is about to get married, and definitely about being yourself at your own country. There is certainly nothing wrong about going back home.

And it is always a feast to grow the anticipation in you stomach, like the nervousness before being called to sing on a stage on the last day of your junior high; or when you about to get your first kiss by the one you hopelessly fall in love with - it is so close, yet feels so far. And when your mind being so occupied with the good things there right at home, the time flies unnoticed. Just like when you listen to the music that you love, in contrast to sitting alone in a room with nothing but four-wall so rustic it almost grimy.

The voice of the lead stewardess that always the one what will break the endless, infinite time continuum. As if a kid being shoved with a lollipop, so jolly, so happy, so can't wait to get back home. I know this may sound cliche, but as what Janus said in his letter,

This may all sound rather trite and clichéd to you, but I will remind you that expressions only become clichés through over use, and they are only overused because of their truth value. The truth, in the end, is often trite.

Hello Malaysia



Sir Pök Déng said…
Welkang Hong, Kak Dah!
Zubaidah Arshad said…
nok makang nasik dagang lauk ikang aye setoko esok bohh! haha

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