You know I'm a dreamer
But my heart's of gold
I had to run away high
So I wouldn't come home low
Just when things went right
Doesn't mean they're always wrong
Just take this song and you'll never feel left all alone
-
(Motley Crew-Home Sweet Home)
But my heart's of gold
I had to run away high
So I wouldn't come home low
Just when things went right
Doesn't mean they're always wrong
Just take this song and you'll never feel left all alone
-
(Motley Crew-Home Sweet Home)
I am a dreamer indeed. A man full of hope and desire. A man who believes in the greater good, a man who believes in Disney ending. I am a hopeless romantic. As many have known, I left home five years ago to pursue a dream. I left the place i called by many names - shit hole, junk yard, pantat kawah - just to finally go back to 'her', kneeling, and begging for her to take me back in, with arms wide open, and make me feel, something that I have never felt in a long long time, BELONG.
And four months of hot summer that's exactly how she made me feel. I was home. Not anymore a shit hole, not anymore a pantat kawah. I was finally home.
Home is not quite a glamorous place to be in, not a place you could rent an apartment and fill it with IKEA furniture after two months of working. It is where you sleep on a mattress in a low cost flat. It is not a place where you drive a German car, but you ride in a tin can on wheels instead. Nor home is the place where your 'human rights' are taken care of. It is where you work like a dog and get shitty pay. Home is not a place you could save up enough for annual ski vacation in the Alps. It is where having KFC once a month is a luxurious treat. Home is not about Scotch over lunch and Merlot over dinner. It's ais kosong and teh ais when you can afford one. And home is not about working and studying during week days, longing for another weekend of drunken nights and meaningless sex just to wake up on Monday morning with a hangover and praying so the girl from last night won't miss her period cycle. Home, is about hard work during weekdays and spending quality time with your family over the weekend. Home is where you stay focus in what you do, a place where you set your goals and actually go for it, a place where live your life. Home is sweet, home is home, home-sweet-home.
Four months at home taught me lessons. Lessons, that I had been longing for throughout my exile. Five years of floating and drifting, looking for the answer, and of all the places I could have found it, I found it resting at my very own home. There, a moment of realization. To appreciate home I had to first despise it.
I love the life in a foreign land. I did not have to worry about, well, anything. Everything was made easy. Not once in my life time had I need to face hardship and difficulty. Not once. I had roof over my head wherever I go, never had to starve, and clothes, those that many cant even imagine to have, I have them lined up nicely starched and ironed in the closet. I love the life in a foreign land. I get amused by all the small things. Being all classy, stylish, and looking good in all occasion. While some of my collegues had to decide on which brand of canned tuna would be the cheapest one, I, a pompous pretentious spoilt brat would be all dressed up dining in a gourmet restaurant, enjoying my fresh mussels, with a glass of chardonay in hand. What a life huh?
Back to my four months of summer. It lasted a life time. I was happy, heart broken, revived, resurrected, and heartbroken again, many many times. And guess to whom I fell back to? The warm hands of my parents and, of course, God almighty. Obviously I am by far not the cover boy of Islam, nor am I an obedient kid. But over the months mending my broken self, I did go to 'meet' God with my old man. Soothing. It was like the first time I had ever experienced joy in my life. I also managed to have a few rather pleasant conversations with the sweet lady who carried me in her for nine long dreadful months, some 23 years ago.
Alone I sat in a multi-billion dollar coffee shop franchise in one of the greatest establishments in the country, I thought, "Am i going to leave all these for a bunch of overpriced coats, and some fancy restaurants, and getting hammered off my backside every weekend??? Hell no". Well, there was one reason why I wanted to stay. Not the overpriced coats, nor was it the fancy restaurants, but 'something' else. One thing that I, a pompous, pretentious, spoilt brat, could never have. I wanted 'it', and still very much desire 'it', and undoubtedly, in love with 'it'. But I just can't have 'it'. That explains why I wanted it so bad doesn't it?
Other than 'it', and 80 quids a day pay I could make in this foreign land, I have got nothing much to gain here. But at home in the other hand, I've got the whole country to explore, the whole system to exploit, and most importantly, my entire life to built.
So, bring on the low cost flat and the mattress, bring on the tin-can car, throw my human rights out the window, pay me dirt, shove the KFC down my throat and water it down with ais kosong, spare me the drunkenness, give me sobriety, and sex... it can wait until the day I tie the knot. I just want to get home, I just want to be home. I'm tired of running, living in denial. I'm done dissing my home and giving it names. I am going home, and this time I'm going home, for good.
-taukamalAnd four months of hot summer that's exactly how she made me feel. I was home. Not anymore a shit hole, not anymore a pantat kawah. I was finally home.
Home is not quite a glamorous place to be in, not a place you could rent an apartment and fill it with IKEA furniture after two months of working. It is where you sleep on a mattress in a low cost flat. It is not a place where you drive a German car, but you ride in a tin can on wheels instead. Nor home is the place where your 'human rights' are taken care of. It is where you work like a dog and get shitty pay. Home is not a place you could save up enough for annual ski vacation in the Alps. It is where having KFC once a month is a luxurious treat. Home is not about Scotch over lunch and Merlot over dinner. It's ais kosong and teh ais when you can afford one. And home is not about working and studying during week days, longing for another weekend of drunken nights and meaningless sex just to wake up on Monday morning with a hangover and praying so the girl from last night won't miss her period cycle. Home, is about hard work during weekdays and spending quality time with your family over the weekend. Home is where you stay focus in what you do, a place where you set your goals and actually go for it, a place where live your life. Home is sweet, home is home, home-sweet-home.
Four months at home taught me lessons. Lessons, that I had been longing for throughout my exile. Five years of floating and drifting, looking for the answer, and of all the places I could have found it, I found it resting at my very own home. There, a moment of realization. To appreciate home I had to first despise it.
I love the life in a foreign land. I did not have to worry about, well, anything. Everything was made easy. Not once in my life time had I need to face hardship and difficulty. Not once. I had roof over my head wherever I go, never had to starve, and clothes, those that many cant even imagine to have, I have them lined up nicely starched and ironed in the closet. I love the life in a foreign land. I get amused by all the small things. Being all classy, stylish, and looking good in all occasion. While some of my collegues had to decide on which brand of canned tuna would be the cheapest one, I, a pompous pretentious spoilt brat would be all dressed up dining in a gourmet restaurant, enjoying my fresh mussels, with a glass of chardonay in hand. What a life huh?
Back to my four months of summer. It lasted a life time. I was happy, heart broken, revived, resurrected, and heartbroken again, many many times. And guess to whom I fell back to? The warm hands of my parents and, of course, God almighty. Obviously I am by far not the cover boy of Islam, nor am I an obedient kid. But over the months mending my broken self, I did go to 'meet' God with my old man. Soothing. It was like the first time I had ever experienced joy in my life. I also managed to have a few rather pleasant conversations with the sweet lady who carried me in her for nine long dreadful months, some 23 years ago.
Alone I sat in a multi-billion dollar coffee shop franchise in one of the greatest establishments in the country, I thought, "Am i going to leave all these for a bunch of overpriced coats, and some fancy restaurants, and getting hammered off my backside every weekend??? Hell no". Well, there was one reason why I wanted to stay. Not the overpriced coats, nor was it the fancy restaurants, but 'something' else. One thing that I, a pompous, pretentious, spoilt brat, could never have. I wanted 'it', and still very much desire 'it', and undoubtedly, in love with 'it'. But I just can't have 'it'. That explains why I wanted it so bad doesn't it?
Other than 'it', and 80 quids a day pay I could make in this foreign land, I have got nothing much to gain here. But at home in the other hand, I've got the whole country to explore, the whole system to exploit, and most importantly, my entire life to built.
So, bring on the low cost flat and the mattress, bring on the tin-can car, throw my human rights out the window, pay me dirt, shove the KFC down my throat and water it down with ais kosong, spare me the drunkenness, give me sobriety, and sex... it can wait until the day I tie the knot. I just want to get home, I just want to be home. I'm tired of running, living in denial. I'm done dissing my home and giving it names. I am going home, and this time I'm going home, for good.
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