Promise Me Then

Agarina gone B.yond W.rds

Promise me we will go to see the geyser, stay for a while, and you will name your son Harrison.

Promise me I will have no worry about consuming sugar, drawing on the wall, missing my high-school friends, owning more camera, or running a little vintage bookshop.


Promise me you will graduate, and when I do, you’d clap the loudest, and wait for me with the cliché; bouquet of flowers. You would smile, so would the flower seller. Then the pavements would surely be full.

Promise me then.

(Agarina gone B.yond W.rds, from post at March 18, 2010)

Dear Gia,

Letter, Short Story

Oslo Sentralstasjon

Dear Gia,

I’m doing pretty well, here. Oslo is nice and really expensive. They pay me well though. Not for my erotic fiction (of course) but for my real job; the reason why I left. Yes, one of the reasons why I left. I hate to tell you this on my first paragraph but let me admit something: I lost the other reasons in December. They disappeared and turned to white. “Pof,” just like that. You might wonder why I stay; I don’t know. However, I learned that sometimes people don’t need reasons to go on, either forward or backward. Including you. You don’t need (more) reasons of my lie(s).

I know you miss me as much as I miss you (yes, and your sofa, the mark on your ceiling we used to debate about whether it looked like a hand gesturing ‘peace’ or simply a bunny with asymmetric crooked ears, and the one you didn’t mention; your old cassette player). Every time I walk through this snowy Karl Johans Gate and see a girl with ponytail, I cannot help thinking about you and how comforting it would feel to sit together with you on the sofa; to discuss about your friend, Naomi; then make love slowly.

Well, reasons were not the only things that faded into snow last year. I lost my ability to love and write those love-making stories. I used to go into detail as if I’m sculpting Aves; feather by feather. After I left, all I wrote was tasteless porn. So I stopped writing. You might have noticed that I put a period right after “then make love slowly” then rushed to start a new paragraph. I don’t know why and I don’t need any reason to write again either. So, while nothing much changed on your side of wall, mine, changed a lot. I’m losing myself little by little.


You weren’t the only one of us who stumbled upon letters. I found yours in a shop in Sentralstasjon on my way to work. I found G-I-A separated by an ampersand, yes, ‘&’. I came inside the shop and took a look at them really carefully. Why should there be an ampersand? Without knowing what I was going to do with them, I bought them (including the ampersand) on my way back home in the evening.



People make mistakes; so do I. I know I don’t deserve anything but consequences of everything I did, but please keep the ‘N’ as I would keep the ampersand. I won’t promise so I won’t lie again, but one day, after finding myself again I would do the beep-silence-beep-beep-silence-beep-beep-beep on your door. I will fix my name out of LIE by giving an N and with the ampersand they would be ‘GIA & NEIL‘. Then we will make love again on your sofa.

Meanwhile; I miss you.



(a reply for this)

Don’t Promise to Grow Old with Me

Agarina gone B.yond W.rds, Wonder

On Her Way Home

Don’t promise we’d spend the rest of our every evening with teapots of coffee, with low light, listening you writing songs about me and your old stories.

Don’t promise we’d survive the war or the earthquake, because there are too many men who try too hard to be important, because I already told you that Earth keeps secrets the best.

Don’t promise to come to Vietnam with me. We both are too busy. I’m jumping to the very next flight to Kenya, when monochromatic zebras are closer, and pink hippopotamus are farther.

Don’t promise that you’d be able to read me like you’re able to read the whole newspaper with its ads and its political jokes backward.

Don’t promise to stop seeing the glass half empty, the bible half misinterpreted, the skyscraper half ruined, the storm half stopped, the bread half toasted, and the women half naked.

Don’t promise to spell every Beatles’ lyric correctly in French, in Japanese, in Arabic, in PHP, or in silence. Just say, and write a letter for me later than the dawn.

Don’t promise to draw the silver linings perfectly because bright clouds aren’t good at raining, and because it’d hurt the dark designs we always have in our selfish minds.

Don’t promise to go hiking and stop the volcanoes. They are too sad to sleep too long. Too sad to lose their warmth, their weight, and the lives around. We both never know.

Don’t promise to stay or to make a home in a train or an airplane, so when you’re too tired to drive following the horizon, we’d just rest upon the yellow grass or above the golden sea.

Don’t promise to forget every promises you didn’t promise me, the way I often forget my way home, all those traffic lamps, and punctuations in your bed time poems.

Don’t promise anything in this temporary life. You and I have never been too close or too far to see the future and lifetime is never worth the wait.

(Agarina gone B.yond W.rds, from post at September 4, 2009)