Volume 20: BULAN by Perspektif Magazine

perspektif

VOLUME 20

B U L AN

Acknowledgement of Country Perspektif Magazine acknowledges the Traditional Owners of the land our magazine is produced and printed on, in which we have been given the opportunity to create and share our thoughts, art and stories. We pay our respects to the Elders past and present, and emerging leaders. We understand that Sovereignty was never ceded.

PERSPEKTIF

volume 20

bulan

Perspektif

Indonesian for Perspective (noun.) a point of view

Perspektif is a biannual print and online magazine dedicated to showcasing young talents and ideas about current issues. Each volume contains a variety of written and visual pieces from critical analyses to poems and personal essays, each centralized on a theme. Supported by kind donations and passionate individuals, our magazine is entirely free and run by a team of student volunteers. We hope that Perspektif will inspire and familiarise you with new ideas, and perhaps help you to challenge yours in the process.

VISION To be a platform that exemplifies the diversity of student experiences through showcasing ideas, talents, initiatives, and stories relevant to the youth.

MISSION To provide a shared space for discussions of timely topics and build a sense of community, while creating a magazine that is visually and intellectually engaging.

photography JONATHAN RAMLI

EDEN illustration SUKI MCMASTER

BUL AN “The Moon is a friend for the lonesome to talk to.”– Carl Sandburg When we look at the clear night sky, we cannot help but notice the Moon’s presence. The Moon is someone who silently watches, the one who listens to our woes, the one who shines so bright. The Moon is the star closest to our planet, and its existence is poetic. It’s different sides seduce us and pull us toward its mystery. Much like us, the Moon has two faces, one we show everyone and one we hide. The Moon’s allure is so strong that we cannot help but be so eager to get there, which culminated in one of mankind’s greatest achievements. It is so far out of reach for most of humanity that we can only gaze upon it. We celebrate its different sides and equate the Moon to love. We compare it to the stars in our solar system, and yet the Moon is still our favorite. There are so many stories told and heard about the Moon. These are just a few of them.

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EDITOR in chief’S WORDS Hey there! Congratulations on reaching for the moon and finding yourself right here in our midst. Bulan, the Indonesian word for "moon," has long been a source of inspiration and wonder, representing a realm that often feels impossible. As we approach the end of the 2022/2023 Perspektif Family, we embrace this second and last volume as a heartfelt farewell, we invite you to immerse yourself in worlds where dreams and imagination take flight. Within the pages of Bulan, you will embark on an intellectual and artistic journey that celebrates the moon’s profound influence on various spheres of experiences. Prepare to be captivated by stories that blend reality and fantasy. As always, our team has been working tirelessly behind the scenes to curate and arrange these pieces. Every piece has been carefully chosen to align with the theme, creating an extraordinary composition. Each selection is intended to evoke emotions, challenge perspectives, and ignite your imagination. Moreover, I want to dedicate this special volume to my amazing Perspektif Family, extending my deepest gratitude to each and every one of you! Your persistent dedication, efforts, and creativity have brought us to this incredible milestone. I am also extremely grateful to our talented contributors for sharing their visions and unspoken desires. The written and visual expressions have crafted tales that push the boundaries of our perceptions . With your incredible talent, you have transformed this special volume into a gateway to new dimensions of thought and emotion. Lastly, to our cherished readers, thank you for your continuous support and for joining us on this journey. Your enthusiasm and appreciation have fuelled our team’s tireless efforts, reminding us of the profound impact that literature can have on our lives. Well, it is time for you go ahead and step into the moonlit magic of Volume 20. Enjoy!

Sincerely, Marcia Thomas

photography MARCIA THOMAS

Managing EDITOR’S WORDS The moon is so special in so many ways. It is there to guide lost travellers home and has been a constant friend to lonely souls that need a quiet listener. The moon can sometimes become a reminder of how lonesome the night can be. But it will never leave our side. This theme feels befitting for this volume, to mark the end of an era and the start of a new one. The moon is a representation of change and enlightenment. Nothing stays the same, but there is much more to life than a bitter ending. Much like how much we have progressed in this volume. This volume has been an incredible experience. As a team, everyone in this magazine has worked incredibly hard to make sure this volume’s release is as great as the previous ones. To our contributors, I want to thank everyone for submitting their pieces and being incredibly patient, kind, and always ready to take on any challenge that might come their way. We hope that readers of this volume have a great time looking through the pages. Let us not forget, to my team of editors, thank you so much for working on this volume and putting much love. I appreciate all your hard work and contributions as well! I am sure there are many things to look forward to in your future, and I wish you all nothing but success! Love, Valleryna

FOUNDERS Fauziyah Annur Rama Adityadharma Mary Anugrah Rasita

EDITOR IN CHIEF Marcia Christina Thomas

EDITORIAL Managing Editor Valleryna Putri Amanda

Editors Chrysilla Angelia Djaja Jolin Ashley Kiswoto Namira Zahra Humaira

CREATIVE Creative Director Jessemina Carmenia Sugiono

Designers & Illustrators Alicia Oktaviana Halim Christhalia Sanjaya Gabriella Nathannia Jessica House

Webmaster Michellia Ghassani Herman

illustration VASYA

MARKETING: SOCIAL MEDIA Social Media Director Jessica Quan

Social Media Officers Andy Sulistiadi Erica Gondo Michelle Kristie Sharon Dorothy Simbolon

MARKETING: EVENTS Events Director Kimberly Santoso

Events Officers Gilbert Anderson Santoso Jonathan Ramli Katherine Wijaya Shanty Devi Yadinata

TA B L E O F CONTENTS 16

A COSMIC MEASURE OF LOVE M O U D I S H A Z E E VA

WHISPERS FROM THE MOON VELLA AMANDA

EVERYTHING IS GOING TO BE ALRIGHT BEA R.

YEARNING YOU YA N T I

IF YOU WERE A SEASON M I C H E Y E TA K ATA

LUNA JOLIN

COTILLION T E V YA A R T A N T O

A P O E M A B O U T T H E FA I T H F U L M O O N , A N D H O W E A S I LY I T I S FORGOTTEN IN THE FLOODING SIGHTS GWENETH LIV WIHARDJAJA

MOONLAND

S H U U J AT M I R Z A

SCAFFOLDINGS

JESSICA QUAN

A N I N D YA M E I V

I BROKE MY HEART TONIGHT

IN THE SACRED NAME OF MOON

T H E M O O N A S A M E TA P H O R S H U U J AT M I R Z A

M I C H E Y E TA K ATA

IX CHEL

MY MOON, MY LOVE C.A.

PHASES OF MOON A L I C I A O K TAV I A N A H A L I M

MIA

illustration ALICIA OKTAVIANA HALIM

photography JONATHAN RAMLI

CONTRIBUTORS VOLUME 20

WORDS A L I C I A O K TAV I A N A H A L I M A N I N D YA M E I V BEA R, C.A. GWENETH LIV WIHARDJAJA JESSICA QUAN JOLIN MIA MOUDISHA ZEEVA M I C H E Y E TA K ATA S H U J A AT M I R Z A T E V YA A R T A N T O VELLA AMANDA YA N T I

MEDIA CLARISSA J O N AT H A N R A M L I MARCIA THOMAS M I R A B E L L S TA C Y Q U A N MOUDISHA ZEEVA PPIA VIC SUKI MCMASTER V A S YA

A Cosmic Measure of Love words MOUDISHA ZEEVA illustration CHRISTHALIA SANJAYA "How much do you love me?" a mother teasingly asked. Given the silent treatment, she asked again until he was too annoyed, having no choice but to answer. "How much do you love me?" She insists. With a faint sigh, he got up from his seat and stood. Slightly on his tiptoes, he stretched his little arms into a circle and said, "This much." Love you to the moon and back is a cringe-inducing, nostalgic phrase to me. When we were 13-yearolds, my best friend and I thought it was the ultimate expression of love–overwhelmingly vast and profound. We’d use the phrase in every call, message, letter–in any way we could. As if the distance to the moon and back would cover what love was. Which wouldn’t. We’d change ‘Moon’ into ‘Uranus’ because that was the extent of the love we knew then. Thinking that love is indeed measurable by distance, it was only fair to save the farthest planet, Neptune, for people we love more than ourselves–our parents, for example. 10 years later, we’re still using the same phrase, only shortened into ilytuab, alleviating the otherwise naive, cringe-inducing phrase to a passable squirm. Since it’s a phrase only the two of us understand, it’s also a reminder of how love was once innocent and pure–as silly as thinking it could span the distance to Uranus and back. In our little world, ilytuab became a mantra that reminded us we’ve got each other, even for just a fleeting moment. As we matured, our definitions of love grew with us. It became immeasurable, sacred, exclusive, and rare. Those who have encountered love in its many forms can say that nothing in this world would ever compare. Perhaps love is an amalgam 16

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of gratitude, respect, infatuation, admiration, and all the other unfathomable emotions. Hence it is only natural that some of us seek to truly grasp and validate our emotions of love by associating it with something else comparable to momentarily scale it to comprehension. Sometimes instead of regarding love as what it is, we try to define it by the things associated with it. Like putting in the effort, time, and resources as manifestations of love. The immensity of love was replaced by the hardships we were willing to go through for the other person. Such that our dedication, effort, and commitment to going the distance could easily prove how profound love is. To an extent, love is mistaken as the value of our sacrifices. Which in turn taints that silly little understanding of love we once had as a child. Although by doing so, we fall into the traps of oversimplification. Like how my best friend and I measured love cosmically, we might discredit a whole lot of what love is. Now, over five thousand miles away from each other, our notions of love face constant challenges. Amidst the complexities of adulthood, homesickness, isolation, loneliness, and self-discovery, it’s hardly a surprise that the amount of love we could tolerate falters. As soon as there’s an opportunity, we instinctively cling to fantasies in between our realities–scraps of what little of love we could find just to make ourselves feel less lonely. A small example I can share is how my best friend and I get so excited over the changing of seasons. It is when daylight savings occur and our time difference narrows by about an hour. Although we couldn’t bridge the distance, knowing that we are closer in time gave us the illusion that we are not alone. Perhaps, the greatest measure of love is the most significant thing one can ever express–and for a child unacquainted with the ways of the world, his love was as grand as his little arms could stretch. And that was the world to him. That much.

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Whispers from the Moon words VELLA AMANDA illustration JESSICA HOUSE

I wonder, are we a little lost? Come look, do you see? To show you this myself Come! Don’t be shy— Do you see? Up there in the sky The midnight blue eye Come, please, let’s try You come and go, What makes it so? Please, stay. I am drunk by your shadow. My dear, don’t you ever wonder? I turn, the breeze has taken you away The midnight blue eye has taken your Shadow away.

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Everything is going to be alright words BEA R. illustration GABRIELLA NATHANNIA

I turn the engine off and let the warmth of the seatbelt embrace me as I look out the window speckled with dust. The isolated two-way street is split down the middle by a narrow sidewalk lined with evergreen lamp posts. Cars are neatly parked on either side of the curb, except for one that juts a little out of line. I peer at the rearview mirror and grimace the sight of my slanted back tire. It’s funny to park here by choice as it was usually my last resort. I loathed this place. For one, parking is not one of my talents, especially doing the parallel. It takes up 5 minutes (maybe more) of my time and humiliation from onlookers. A few have offered to finish the job. I guess it was a spectacle of some sort. To top it all off, the parking lot is a 6-minute walk from the office. In a desert setting, that’s a lot of sunlight and sweat. I get out of my car and start my walk, scanning the lot as if I would see him pull smoothly into one of the blank spaces. Always punctual. But even in normal circumstances, the chances are slim. It’s already 12 minutes past the hour. A pyramid-like hotel stands on one side of the street and adjacent to it sitting at the end of the road is a trapezoid building, the shade of ivory. Whimsical. In broad daylight, the trapezoid structure does not make much of a statement. The six words splayed atop the seemingly blank structure are almost invisible. After sun-down, it is lit a pale fluorescent yellow, basking in the glow of the building. A wild-

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card of colours. The cheesy words give some sort of reassurance after a long day. I stayed back in the stuffy office chair sometimes with actual work to finish off, other times on purpose to witness the sight. There were times I would leave on the dot like he does. A silent companion with earphones on, walking with nonchalance, lost in his own world. A true crime. He crosses the street with the stoplights memorized. I like how I do not have to think much when walking with him. I get to enjoy my songs and tune out the busy street as I follow along. Then the silence turned into questions. Some were asked out loud. Nothing significant to make a mark. Mundane weekend plans and parking problems. Reaching the halfway point of my walk, I got to the end of the parking lot when I turned to the corner. A tomb burst open and that night resurrected. The stuffy air from people’s breaths, the sweet smell of cinnamon and sugar on our steaming churros and the sensation of frost-bitten hands all resurfaced in vivid clarity. Every detail, every word, it all came back to me. "Do you have 5 minutes?" our fast-paced walk turned slow. Between the walk from the building to the food stall I plan to blurt it all out in, I didn’t feel the sense of dread until now. The churros stand blasts Ava Max on the radio. ‘Oh she’s sweet but a psycho’, she warns. It did not help ease my nerves. I floundered around trying to gather courage along the

500-meter stretch accompanied by his attempts at coaxing what I wanted to say out of me, to no avail. I had to remind myself that this was my doing.

A week ago, my canvas paled in comparison to his. In turn, his spiky personality contrasted his art. It was an impossible night but that could be all that it is.

I rub my hands together at the gust of cold air. He feigns aloofness but there was no mistaking that spark of amusement in his eyes that not even his wellpracticed poker face can hide. I think he knows. I wonder if it is my immaturity that has driven me to this madness. I try to find answers on the floor. I clocked in 5 minutes early today, admiring the morning haze. Now I feel blind-sided. If I am being honest, dread did not consume me. There was a traitorous thrill coursing through my veins as the words lay at the tip of my tongue.

We bonded over our differences which were meant to fail. So when I saw sparks flying, I felt betrayed. Lights of crashing planes flickered at the back of my mind. It was weirdly mesmerizing. It doesn’t have to be perfect the first time. Bastard. He definitely knows. The cool December air ushers us to our cars, but as we reach the end of the parking lot, he sits on a nearby ledge at the corner looking at me expectantly. I try to stand my ground already half a kilometer too late. All I know is I am set on getting rid of my what-ifs at the cost of whatever dignity I thought I had.

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From an outsider’s point of view, I know I look like a fool fidgeting violently with a paper bag in hand and a semiamused man losing patience as an audience. They don’t see the battle in my head, and what I wore on my sleeve. Here goes. I think I soften the blow with a white lie. I tried some more. I think I like you. I must have finally said it out loud, the words no longer confined in my head as his questioning stare turned into surprise. Not surprised that I do but surprised I managed to say it. It felt as if I had reached the finish line. But thrill and relief quickly got replaced by the harsh reality that this also marked the end. Not letting a second pass, my feet moved on their own accord towards the car as I fumble for my keys, trembling. I put as much distance as I could between me and the stranger-to-be, my mouth running to fill the silence because all of a sudden, rejection or not, we will crash and burn. Under the glow of the street lights, he looks back at me across the street, saying something about balancing it out. Night has just fallen and his eyes reflect the distant light of the building, evergreen. I think I like you too. I shiver at the whisper of the wind. Some things really are better left in the air. I snapped out of my daze. The warm breeze envelopes me as I stand at the signal. I squint at the lights, waiting for it to tell me it’s my turn. I tap my feet on the pavement, my patience running low. From a distance, I can still see the trapezoid building, blank. I relentlessly chased the blinking green light of the pedestrian signal, my earphones swaying in rhythm. In that moment, a profound reassurance washed over me. I held an unwavering faith that beyond the horizon of this road, a resolute promise awaited—the assurance that, I know everything will be okay.

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photography JONATHAN RAMLI

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Yearning You words YANTI illustration JESSICA HOUSE

Every petal of hibiscus chanting romantic songs Dripping sweet pollen to spring up A heart that yearns the maroon honey A heart that whispers to the crescent moon How the air felt greyish without the sparks from the eyes The eyes where all kindness resides The eyes that ownthe lovely warmth. Under the moonlight, she lets her heart bloom And pin the paths where she fell head over heels for the honey Through the chess, through the smiles Through the fallen leaves To once more tell me "The moon is lovely, isn’t it?" To once more tell "The moon is lovely, isn’t it?" To ardently hug each other even if they are separated, a dawn and a dusk which will never be in the same eve

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If you were a season words MICHEYE TAKATA illustration JESSEMINA SUGIONO

If you were a season, I would wish you to be spring, for your smile let the flowers bloom, for your laugh brightens the sky, for your gaze warms the day If you were a season, I would wish you to be spring, and I would be the wind and I would follow you wherever you go and I would stay even when you passed, and we’ll meet again next year, and the next and the next and the next— If you were a season, I would wish you to be spring and I wouldn’t mind spending forever with you and I wouldn’t mind dyingi countless times to meet you and I wouldn’t mind flowing as your longest breeze for us to dance in the morning, in the noon, in the night for us to linger under the sunlight, under the moonlight If you were a season, I would wish you to be spring— the eternal spring.

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LUNA words JOLIN illustration GABRIELLA NATHANNIA

With her body strung on anxiety and exhaustion, she dragged her feet as she boarded the train and scanned the carriage for an empty seat. The train was crowded, and the worn-out lights and stuffy air did not make the environment feel any better. Eventually, she found an unoccupied window seat and hurriedly settled into it. Her school bag had been an unwelcome burden throughout the day. Releasing a heavy sigh, she adjusted her posture and removed the bag from her shoulders. Thoughts of journaling crossed her mind. It had been another overwhelming day, thanks to her relentless pursuit of perfection or nothing at all. Lately, it felt as if she had fallen victim to this selfsabotaging mindset everyday. Picking up the faux leather covered notebook and her favorite pen from her bag, she unconsciously scolded herself. This notebook is nothing but a collection of angry rants and complaints. You’re honestly pathetic for doing this everyday. Yet journaling somehow brought her solace. She was the kind of person who always believed that venting your problems to another person is pointless. Regardless, she needed an emotional outlet, and her journal provided her just that. With a 30-minute journey ahead of her, she had ample time to pour out her thoughts. She titled her entry "Between The Lines #22," a fitting heading for all her rants. It made sense because no matter how many pages she filled, no matter what she wrote, there was always more left unsaid. She put on her headphones and started playing ‘I was all over her’ by Salvia Palth. The melodic tune drowned the commotion in the train. I hate feeling anxious. Sometimes I wish I could take a shot before meeting certain people or going to certain places. Maybe even smoke a few hits. Perhaps then I wouldn’t be such a nervous wreck. I don’t even smoke. It’s frustrating, the way I’ve been feeling lately. Yeah sure, the sickening (literally, I feel nauseous) feeling of having to worry about people’s perception of me is going to be the death of me. I can’t stand it. School isn’t

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helping either. I keep beating myself up whenever I don’t get grades that are up to my expectations. Ivy Leagues only accept great students and I feel like the Ivy dream is feeling more distant. But again, 92. I have to stop beating myself up. Luna would never do that. Luna was her role model. Someone she greatly looked up to. ‘Luna’ was the name she had given to the Moon, a personified character she could easily resonate with. Growing up, she always felt a sense of admiration towards the luminant space object. Her bed faced the window which had a clear view of the moon and whenever it was a full moon, she would always feel a connection. Always felt grounded and more at peace. Even as a toddler, she was always more of a moon girl than a star girl. Her first words as a toddler was "moon". It became a story that her mother often told her friends and relatives about; how she thought her firstborn would say "mum" as her first word but ended up saying "moon" instead. Today, I found myself comparing again. It’s been hard to keep an optimistic mindset. Senior year is ending soon and my self-inflicted anxiety is driving me insane. It’s the last thing I need. However, I’ve adopted a somewhat useful and healthy coping mechanism. Whenever I find myself in a difficult scenario, I’ve trained myself to react in a better way. Iask myself, "What would Luna do?". So, in this case, what would Luna do? She underlined the last sentence. Twice. She always loved how everyone was awestruck by the Moon. Whenever it shone at night, people would automatically point at it and say "Look at the moon!". She wished people would react to her that way too. Not in a narcissistic way, but she longed to be perceived as great. She wanted validation from others, whether it be her classmates or the admissions office of her dream colleges. But she could never admit that out loud; it just sounds pathetic, something Luna would never do. Luna would never compare herself to others. She would

never compare her beauty and capabilities to any other celestial body in space. Not the stars, not the planets, not even the Sun. So neither should I. Luna would never approve of my behavior. I need to breathe, I need to take time for myself. Understand grades in high school do not mean everything. I have to realize that everything will be okay. I will be okay. She drew a little crescent moon after the last sentence. She continued writing, her gaze fixed on the page, and gradually felt the tug behind her neck loosening. The tension headache that had plagued her earlier seemed to fade, and her heart felt lighter.

She swore that whenever she found herself in a difficult situation, Luna would be there, shining brighter at night, offering her company and support. She felt at peace with her presence. No words were needed, just her. Closing off her journal entry, she wrote, Funny how anxiety reflects so much in an individual’s vessel. How something that is so easily unconsciously inaugurated could feel so suffocating. I promise myself that I’m trying to get better at dealing with all this. I’m trying. At least, I’m trying. Right, Luna?

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Secluded sancturary

The Gate 28

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Walking Through Light

Urban Spotlight photography MOUDISHA ZEEVA ARTS, CULTURE AND EDUCATION /

Cotillion i I had known no want of north until those fateful hours, when she arrived in all her grace to greet perennial flowers — A bow to bougainvillaea, "Charmed," to jungle flame — then I upon a bashful briar stirred blinking at the dame. So graciously did she beguile me until I finally tired, and only then did I identify the silver-sun as desire. ii. She never stayed for long, not once, and every morning upon the thorns — I’d find her coat of dew and mist unfurling past all that I’ve seen. Oh, too long had the trembling eaves born my weight ‘til I feared they’d yield, but friend, I’d strain forevermore to find the edge of where she went; so I resolved — to find her there — by the seams of her vanishing cape, even as it flickered out each morning and yet — despite the mourning cycle she never tires, and returns, reliable, no matter how far I ran ahead — still sat upon her celestial throne with arms outstretched once more if just for the dream of fanciful fate.

words TEVYA ARTANTO illustration GABRIELLA NATHANNIA

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iii. But what is the measure of fate? Somehow you seemed to know — Gleaned, perhaps, from gossamer threads of phoenix-fire gowns made to order from her; and you paid that price ‘til your blood’s her silver stream. Now blackbirds nest along the banks beneath your wondrous airs — and you know them by name, and memorised their songs, for how could you not, after infinite interludes spent dissecting the winding stems of all their diaphanous wit? — But alas, ran dry did the river, ‘til all you panned were your farewells to our dressed-up gilded glen — Still, the greatest sorrow remains; my illiteracy in your delicacies. iv. So now I tend to moonflowers and all their silver speckles; with her watching from her vantage as I relish facsimile delights —

A POEM ABOUT THE FAITHFUL MOON, AND HOW EASILY IT IS FORGOTTEN IN THE FLOODING SIGHTS words GWENETH LIV WIHARDJAJA illustration CHRISTHALIA SANJAYA

Indolent swirls. You have that effect. Of coming to my life With the least amount Of intention yet stirring, The waters of my mind. Luscious stardust penetrating Every cell of thought. A painter’s doodle overshadowing the moon. Turning nights into Love’s festival and mornings into a duet of two world’s flights. All completely safe for the ghost of you. Crescent. Full. New. Strangers into lovers. Lovers into phantoms. Distortions of void time bending your soothing lullabies. In the broken ruins, In the tears of red eyes, In the solitude of a Jenga puzzle, Within a competition of people To be the last man standing On your collapsing home And fading consciousness. You are so beautiful, sometimes I forget how I fell in love with the most broken parts of you.

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The moon has blotches Like a few notches Above its whitelisted watches It teases out unsuspecting songs From birds at rest Hidden inside the dark, verdant Vacuums between The time taken to cohabit And the building of their nests In one quick flourish It solves the maze, As if it was a board game– To beknight the hidden face From its own haze

MOONLAND words SHUJAAT MIRZA illustration ALICIA OKTAVIANA HALIM

In the confines of a silence A rush takes place After some false starts and too many regrets A hymn unfolds and stays. Perhaps, the moon is all darkness, But it is equally significant As a luminiferous likeness Betraying its hidden location To the borrowed light that Illuminates its darkling rendition Perhaps, the moon is the imperfection Coming our way The pockmarked disarray, the linear rays Everything that conveys The existence of uneven night and days The waxing and waning The arrival and departure Everything that stays and goes Leaving us none the wiser About the ebbs and the flows.

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Scaffoldings words ANINDYA MEIV illustration GABRIELLA NATHANNIA

They took down the scaffoldings that night So that I could look at you better. Crystallised hindsight by a good measure— This was the best effort in sight. Then incandescent rushed like limelight As I outlined you, still against April fifth’s air And foggy windshield wipers with words in despair, I almost missed you under moonlight. Carved in lacoste and denim, it struck midnight. And tic tock you’re a newborn puzzle racing Beneath urban drizzle’s pressure–a wuthering Case of never have I ever so bright But in another lifetime of that night, If by some ridiculously meticulous starry-eyed Chance they had kept the scaffoldings up with pride, Whether or not I could see you Well enough wouldn’t have mattered In the slightest.

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I broke my heart tonight words MICHEYE TAKATA illustration JESSEMINA SUGIONO

I broke my heart tonight. When I study the way Your gaze followed the beauty of her smile and how you were astounded by it. I broke my heart tonight. When I felt your warmth wrapping around her presence and left me cold out there in the sea of strangers. I broke my heart tonight. When I kept dreaming and dreaming of what we had and how I wished; it could’ve stayed the same as it was. I broke my heart tonight. When I realized that you still lingered in the rooms of my heart yet I was no longer there; you loved me. I broke my heart tonight, and I kept wishing and I kept crying; o how I wish we could’ve stayed like that old good times.

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In the sacred name of Moon words MIA illustration ALICIA OKTAVIANA HALIM

In the sacred name of the moon and its celestial grace, I bear witness to loving you simply Like sunlight’s blessings that adorn and embrace the moon’s radiant face. Last night, in the serene rhythm beneath the Bandung clouds, I am a witness to lips adorned with honey’s sweet allure Whose voice controls the breath that repels doubts. Let it be my song for evermore, Where tales of your cunning constellations guide me home. Tonight, my right to love you cleave Yet now, you’re captivated by the moonlight’s dance in the corner of your room, its luminescence you weave– True that our recognition wanes But trust me, for within the depths of your being lies my eternal existence dwelling And if you hear silence before sleeping tonight and a thousand nights after, If you hear solitude amidst the bustling day today and a thousand days after– In that silence, I’m on my knees praying for you. May it break loudly in the air! ‘Til your hands jitter and you wonder where it is from Do you hear that voice? It is mine, It is mine. In the sacred name of the moon and its celestial grace, I once bore witness to loving you simply. Yet, even though the moon is thirty Earths away from me,

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illustration CLARISSA 38

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Ix Chel words JESSICA QUAN illustration CHRISTHALIA SANJAYA

I have made myself a spectacle of the moon. In an attempt to find desperate solace, she watches me as I dance around the room. Drowning in liquid confusion, I heard whispers of a warm breeze from above. Ix chel. Perhaps it was just another purple pansy daze I thought, collapsing my veins. For I have never envisioned the rime of the night to be so piercingly gentle. I have never thought its icy ray of silver light, would be the one weaving my pieces back alive. But oh, how surreal hearing her whispers of solidarity does heal. "I too made a home out of someone else before. Second chances I gave. Yet, I was burned again, scarred again. And my rays were threatened to be dimmed, if I plan to ever leave." True that now she doesn’t shine the same. But unlike what’s written in the stars, Her lights were never dimmed. For her silver rays shine brighter amidst the darkness of sky. So, like Ix Chel, I too will leave. And my lights too will never be dimmed. I will shine brighter, In solidarity with sisters who walked the same path Ix Chel and I did.

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ALUN ALUN

An Indonesian night market festival that showcases the rich and vibrant tapestry of Indonesian culture

/ ARTS, CULTURE AND EDUCATION

CULTURAL DAY

Cultural Day aims to introduce Indonesian culture to a wider audience, encouraging cultural exchange and understanding

All pictures are provided by @ppiavic

ARTS, CULTURE AND EDUCATION /

THE MOON AS A METAPHOR I value you, Someone I’ve known since long And hence I do not let the gaps Define your presence Just wrongly typed commands, Do not delete Years of shared screen time– Your hidden phases– Display more of yourself to me. Your last seen status Keeps me in good stead. We play hide and seek Like a hidden mural being set up Piece by piece Lost in a translation We won’t ever complete. Your love for radiance, Your penchant for absence. Everything you do settles like dust Absorbing your selfhood. The blank spaces of the crescent, The halo of the moon rise Inhabit the cyclical transition Each stage a mortal condition Released like a wish into the open sky Safely sealed inside the womb Of each evanescent night Sleeping like a fond memory Where my lost dreams crawl Anticipating daylight.

/ CREATIVE

words SHUJAAT MIRZA illustration ALICIA OKTAVIANA HALIM

CREATIVE /

illustration SUKI MCMASTER 44

/ ARTS, CULTURE AND EDUCATION

photography JONATHAN RAMLI ARTS, CULTURE AND EDUCATION /

My Moon, My Love words C.A. illustration CHRISTHALIA SANJAYA

Everybody loves the sun. The sun, a star, brightens our world. Everybody loves the sun, But sometimes the sun doesn’t love back. Staring for too long hurts your eyes. Staying for too long hurts your skin. Leaving for too long hurts your soul. Can it be love if it is so? The moon also brightens our world, Luminating our planet with its soft glow. The moon lets us gaze upon it, It reminds us that we are not alone. The moon loves the earth the way I love you, Unlike the passionate red, heat of the sun, It is soft and comfortable–a shoulder to rest on. I can’t live without you the way the earth can’t live without the moon. You, who brings balance to my world, the one who controls the tides. You, whose face I wish to gaze upon freely without consequence. You, who lets other stars shine along with you without dimming their light. You once asked me for a favour, And I told you I would do anything for you. You asked me, "Anything?" "Yes," I said, "I would steal the moon for you." You smiled and told me I shouldn’t, Because that would bring darkness to the world. But that was what my world would look like– Dark and bleak–without you in it. My moon. My love.

/ CREATIVE

CREATIVE /

/ CREATIVE

Phases of moon words ALICIA OKTAVIANA HALIM illustration JESSICA HOUSE

It’s that moment–again– When my heart stopped beating– Not because I’m going to die, But it stopped beating for him. Our encounter led to banter Then, I saw you with someone else. Maybe what Juliet said to Romeo was right, "O’ Swear Not by the Moon", Love is constantly changing, Like the moon, it does not ever last. It’s funny. Sometimes I wish you were the sun, Hugging me in never-ending warmth. But you are the new moon Blending with the pitch dark skies. Feelings might change– People might change, But my hope stays as bright as the full moon. Someday, I can be someone else’s full moon And that I will be the shine in their darkest night Though it was ever-changing I found beauty in every moment.

CREATIVE /

"WHEN WILL YOU RETURN TO ME HOUYI?" illustration MIRABELL STACY QUAN 50

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