07°58′ S · 112°37′ E  —  a little corner in malang, indonesia

 

my name means dawn

i'm fajar. husband, father, milanista, and a slow collector of small improvements. this page is where my worlds keep each other company — no agenda here, just the things that make me, me. take your time; every room keeps something small.

sedikit demi sedikit,
lama-lama jadi bukit. — old indonesian saying: little by little,
until it becomes a hill. my favorite way to grow.

come in — mind the step

no. 01½ · the hallway table

the day leaves
evidence here.

some things in this house have stories — try the ones that look slightly out of place.

today at home rain after asr · milet in the kitchen · finally fixed the cabinet hinge (again) p.s. the drawer still sticks. it always has.
next door these keys know exactly who they come home to.

no. 02 · the living room

the best part of my life
has no url.

i'm a husband and a father first; everything else on this page is a pleasant footnote to that. i'm not chasing a great anything — i'm trying to become a warmer presence in my own living room, one ordinary evening at a time.

  • patience that doesn't keep score
  • attention is a love language
  • laughter repairs faster than advice

most evenings end the same way: one cup of tea gone cold, because the stories ran long.

next door the tea cools slower when the window’s open.

no. 03 · the window

malang keeps me
cool-headed. literally.

i live in malang, a highland city in east java — mornings cold enough for a jacket, apple country on the road to batu, old tempo doeloe buildings still telling stories, and mountains resting quietly on every horizon. it's a city that teaches you to look first, then move.

i love it here.

some mornings the mist sits on the ridges until nine. the jacket still wins.

next door half of what i see out there, i read first in panels.

no. 04 · the shelf

stories i keep
returning to.

i trust stories that respect slow growth. run your hand along the spines — each one is a friend.

(the spines are ordered by feel, not by letter. don't ask.)

next door and every story on this shelf has a soundtrack.

 

the characters i love most are the ones who keep going. i recognize them from real life.

no. 05 · the music corner

songs are how
i remember years.

a lot of japanese music lives here — certain songs are stapled to certain seasons of my life; one chorus and i'm right back there. currently humming:

yoasobi, yorushika, ado, kenshi yonezu, tuki., aimer, milet, yuuri, radwimps, creepy nuts.

·

side a has a wobble at one spot. i never fixed it. i never will.

next door one corner of this house sings in red and black.

no. 06 · the corner pitch

hearts in
red and black.

lifelong rossonero. kaká taught me grace and faith can share one body — and that the space between the lines belongs to whoever imagines it best. i'll happily talk tactics, primavera kids, transfer sagas, and the fine art of emotional survival that comes with loving this club.

the shirt from 2007 still fits. barely.

on the someday list: one match at san siro, singing with the curva sud.

next door grace and faith share one body — and one quiet room.

no. 07 · the quiet room

faith, for me,
is quiet maintenance.

five small prayers a day work like built-in rhythm — little resets, all day long. i try to treat my habits the same way: no grand reinventions, just tiny honest repetitions. my name means dawn; every fajr, the day gets a quiet reset — and i'm learning to live like that too.

currently practicing: walking · swimming · earlier nights · small repairs around the house · gentler words

some fajrs i beat the sun. some fajrs the sun waits for me.

next door and when the house finally quiets, one lamp stays on.

 

no. 08 · the desk — lamp on after dark

the night shift.

by trade i build software. here, it's just one hobby among many — this page is one of my experiments, along with a tidier workspace and small tools that make home life softer. after dinner and bedtime stories the lamp comes on, and this corner belongs to quiet work. the desk sits near the window on purpose: work serves life here, not the other way around.

most nights it opens after the last bedtime story, while two cups are still waiting by the sink.

next door the experiments needed somewhere to live.

no. 09 · the workbench — sawdust after dark

small tools,
made slowly.

every project on this board began as a small irritation and ended as a small tool — for the browser, the terminal, or the kitchen drawer. this house is one of them; you're standing in it. pull a tag, read the label.

the only rule: it has to make home life softer, or it doesn't get hung.

the repair ledger

  • sep 13one light in the night sky started moving — it isn't a star
  • sep 13a thin thesis found its place under the desk lamp
  • sep 13the corner pitch got its matchday ticket
  • sep 13the floor plan became a drawing of the house
  • sep 12the house learned to shift between day and night
  • sep 12first stone — a doorway, a dawn, a plant that grows 1% a day
next door slow is only the pace — the direction is up.

no. 10 · the rooftop — open at night

the someday list.

  • stand inside san siro once — and sing.
  • watch a sunrise from a malang mountaintop, with my family.
  • keep choosing the slow way, for decades.
  • make home the place everyone wants to return to.
  • …and a few wishes i only tell the stars.

the kettle is always on. if you know me, you know where to find me.