Bicara Dosa

Bila bibir kita berbicara tentang dosa-dosa silam

Yang tersulam dengan keterlanjuran jiwa

Langsung tertawa kita mengenang kebodohan dulu

Bodoh memilih cinta

Bodoh melayan rindu

Bodoh menilai dusta

Bodoh menurut nafsu

Here we are again in your car. Our little miserable space. A district of fools, population two.

Yet this is home, this is perfect. In this enclosed space, we locked everything outside to the point that they don't matter. Like we're at the VIP seats of an outdoor cinema playing reruns we don't bother to watch.  

Bounded in this compound of metal and glass, we feel safe to pour our hearts out. And the acoustic here; it's almost pillow talk quality, whether it's because you literally have pillows in the car is debatable. It echoes our voices, resonates our emotions, and amplifies the weight of our conversation. We set the mood with some Yuna, and then we're off. 

It is always the same, the things we talk about. If someone is to hear our conversations, we must sounded like a broken record. You know what, they'll heard us wrong.

What we talk about is special. Dear to our hearts. We're not a broken record, we're an evergreen song. Song worth repeating, reliving. We scrutinized every details, we delved deep into every situations. We divulged buried feelings. We excavated skeletons and bones of our closets. We looked from another point of view. We asked ourselves a thousand what-ifs. We exhausted every options. We argued. We agreed. We concluded our discussion. Asked ourselves the meaning of the conclusion. And asked ourselves the big question: what's the meaning of life?

And we'll weep, in our own ways. Sometimes vocally, most of the time silently. We'll weep when we saw the pain in our eyes. We'll weep by not looking at each other. We'll weep when we gaze out the window. We'll pretend not to weep.

It's silly, we know. We know better than anyone else how silly it is. We laughed harder at our own stupidity it sounded like we're offending ourselves. But that's how you treat life, because life itself is stupid. We made our choices with what little understanding of life we have.  We made our beds, now we have to lie in it. Sometimes it's easier to weep, sometimes we laughed it off.

When we finished connecting the dots, when we have the locus of our life drawn in our minds, we know we have to part, knowing we're gonna let the evergreen song play again next time.

Us. The car. The street. The city. The nation. The little blue dot. The system. The galaxy. The galaxies. 

And in the grand scheme of the universe, we don't matter.

Nothing is.