Fourmilière

Grey, white, or a similar color with dark paint as concrete; permanent building constructions—high and plush-up to the sky; four-and-two-wheeled machines lined up on the road; pollution and cigar smoke jumbled together to spike each heart; and no green, no trees.

Yes, sometimes I missed the bustle of humans, waiting for the Trans. Yes, sometimes I missed them to say ‘Selamat Siang’ whenever I entered every shop at the corner. And, yes, sometimes I missed the night which I could not find here. Youth, elder, kids, they besiege the late night food and junks as a throng of bats, attacking their preys. But then it changed: busy and even busier, narrow, stuffy, unpretty, and stressful.

I love Jakarta. I miss Jakarta. And the feeling stopped ’til the city becomes a jail which is going to kill you slowly with lifeless elements inside, ’til it becomes a small pit of a hundred ants, like fourmilier. I will come back, but not to breathe heavily, just for a sip of the best coffee in Cikini.

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In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt “No, Thanks“: Is there a place in the world you never want to visit? Where, and why not?