pocket-sized drama

Today I woke up to a dead morning. 

It was strange. I had slept looking at the endless stretch of garish glittering lights from a 33rd floor balcony. Jakarta on a Friday night teemed with life and glitz--even from a view half blocked by a tower of apartments. We had chained-smoked in a tiny balcony, fanned by the warm air blowing out of the air conditioning exhaust. I thought I'd be able to watch the meteor shower that night, but the blurry sky only reflected the neon flashes of the skyscrapers; its plain gray-black haze occasionally broken by the flickering lights of planes shooting by. 

Not even a sky for the stars. 

Never mind. Right across from where we lazed, columns of tiny windows offered pocket-sized drama for listless watchers. On the 30th floor, a couple had forgotten to draw the drapes as they hugged and chased each other--in their undies; one floor below, another couple ate together with admirable concentration--in their undies, too. Most of the windows were dark though. It was the Friday of a long weekend in the heart of Jakarta after all, and people were either partying, or on their way out of a city that never sleeps.

The miniature lives on display, however, couldn't hold a candle to the stories my friend and I had to share each about our long summer holiday in different countries. Soon, the boring half-naked couples got lost in the tales of newly-made friends, almost-found loves, regained freedom, just-shaped realisations, and fresh-fashioned dreams. Twelve airplanes and a pack of Marlboro ice blast later, we turned in. We were two almost-broke teman teman on a Friday long before payday. I got tipsy on the endless flickering lights below; stoned on shared perceptions.  

The next day, I woke up with a start. Something had roused me. And strangely, it was the absolute silence of the morning. I looked out of the window and found a ghost. Jakarta on a daybreak looked like the drained left-over of a vampire feeding frenzy. The flashy glittering lights were gone. Daylight displayed the scraggy, barely surviving plants on some high-rise rooftops. It highlighted the endless stretch of drab brown and gray boxes that were flats packed inhumanely close together. It revealed a morning sky that was already obscured by the notorious Jakarta smog. From the 33rd floor, the early morning silence had the stillness of a passed-out drunk. I wonder if it was just as lonely in the floors below. Suddenly, I missed the mundane morning sounds of my place--my neighbor's shower and heater whirring, the other neighbor sweetly waking up her daughter, the bread man's whistle hooting, the birds chirping... oh, the birds. I love Jakarta. But I will never be its morning slave. 

Glittering lights make one giddy, but it's always best to wake up and see the sky.