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Midnight Malarkey

a peek inside the poetic freak

Category

Diary/Journal

Sejumlah Surat

Untuk: Yang pergi, ditulis saat melarikan diri.


#1—00.30

Aku tahu
kau bukan segalanya untuk
diriku
bukan apa-apa untukmu.

Aku tahu kau tak
pernah istimewa
di hatiku
selalu ada dirimu
layaknya benalu.

Kau membuatkau resah karena
kelakuanmu
membuatku tertawa
terhadap kebodohanku.

Tetapi rasa ini
luar biasa
menyebalkan sekali
pun aku marah juga
tak bisa marah padamu.

Apa ini teka-teki yang
para pujangga akui
kumatnya kinerja hati
adalah sumber inspirasi.

Maka, aku menulis
tentangmu yang tak peduli
tentangku yang bermimpi
tentang kita
tak ada cerita, hanya kenangan
sedu sedan yang kutumpahkan
kala memutar balik
khayalan indah
yang sebenarnya konyol juga.

 


 

#2—01.12

Apa kau tahu aku menulis dengan cara yang berbeda tentangmu? muluk-muluk, campur aduk, dengan hati lelah dan jemari yang tak pernah mengantuk.

Apa kau tahu aku menulis dengan cara yang berbeda karenamu? Aku tahu akan tercebur, dan karena tulisanku jujur, coretan tentangmu kucoret juga. Tentangmu, aku tak takut membuat kesalahan.

Apa kau tahu perasaanku saat menulis tentangmu? Tak karuan. Tentangmu, rasanya aku kehabisan kata-kata. Bahagia, sedih, mara. Mungkin…  cinta? Ah, entahlah.

Apa kau tahu perasaanku saat menulis tentangmu? Kaget, karena tulisanku adalah ungkapan—validasi bahwa kau berarti. Senang saat tahu bahwa hati ini berfungsi. Lega, sungguh lega, karena bisa menulis. Takut, karena sejak perjumpaan, tulisanku sudah menyinggung kerelaan. Seolah-olah aku memang ingin meloncat ke tahap patah hati atau perpisahan.

Apa kau tahu alsanku menulis tentangmu? Agar aku ingat bahwa pernah ada masa saat aku merasakan hal indah. Aku ragu sekarang masih mempercayainya, namun kala itu aku yakin bahwa menulis akan membuatku tabah.

Apa kau tahu alasanku menulis karenamu? Malu, karena tak biasa. Senang atas hal yang kurasa. Agar bisa kuutarakan lebih rapi agar kau mengerti. Agar bisa kuutarakan karena—ternyata, haruskah ku ragu?—kau tak mau mengerti.


Semarang, 27 Juni 2016
—Yang masih merindu

Kau, dia. (Sungguh-sungguhkah?)

Ini cerita tentang kau dan dia. Sebelum aku ada dalam gambaran.

Maaf, ada kesalahan. Maksudku, sebelum aku mengada-ngada bahwa aku ada dalam gambaran.

*

Kau dan dia pernah sempurna. Sempurna dalam keretakan halus berbalut cat sebagai penutup. Sempurna rasa yang kalian alami selama kalian bersama. Sempurna selama ada kepraktisan saat kalian bersama.

Kau dan dia pernah satu. Satu suara mengiyakan hubungan. Satu hati menyayangi. Satu hari… perpisahan terjadi.

Rupanya, jarak dan jurusan menjembatani kalian dengan kemulusan hubungan. Kau dan dia mulus-mulus saja. Setidaknya, awalnya.

*

Sungguh, saat kali pertama bertemu, kau sudah memperlihatkan sifat-sifat bajingan. Kini aku tahu mengapa kau perlu pernah mampir dalam anganku. Agar aku tahu apa yang sesungguhnya baik.

Sungguh, saat kali pertama mendengar ceritamu, kau sudah memperlihatkan keengganan. Tanda-tanda monoton menyerap perlahan-lahan dalam keseharian. Kini aku tahu mengapa aku pernah—dan mungkin masih—mau mendengar keluh kesahmu. Aku perlu memperhatikan sekitarku baik-baik.

Sungguh, saat kali pertama kau ceritakan masalahmu, kau sudah memperlihatkan keegoisan. Kau menuduhnya tak mengerti, mau menang sendiri, banyak menuntut. Kini aku tahu mengapa aku membiarkanmu semena-mena. Aku perlu belajar menghargai perlakuan yang patut.

Sungguh, saat kali pertama kau ungkapkan gundah, kau sudah mencetuskan kebingungan. Kau merasa dunia tak pernah seperti yang mau. Maksudku dari dunia, dunia sesungguhnya dan juga wanita. Kini aku tahu mengapa kau selalu kecewa. Masalahnya, kau terlalu lugu. Apa yang kau inginkan selalu berubah-ubah.

Sungguh, saat kali terakhir kau bercerita tentangnya, aku tak habis pikir. Apa ia sungguh sahabat berlabel mantan? Apa kalian masih menyimpan perasaan? Apa yang sesungguhnya kau harapkan?

*

Kini aku tahu mengapa aku tak pernah cemburu padanya. Kau pernah tersenyum berseri, mengatakan cinta padanya. Kau pernah melakukan hal-hal yang “terlalu feminin” dengannya, dan menolak saat aku yang meminta. Kau bisa membatalkan rencana deminya, sementara untuk membalas pesanku saja kau mempunyai segudang alasan.

Aku tak pernah cemburu padanya, sungguh.

Sungguh, kau bukan orang jahat. Setidaknya, kupikir begitu. Aku dapat melihat kebaikanmu, bahkan tanpa perlu rasa suka. Tetapi otak ini tak pernah berhenti bertanya: apa yang bisa kau beri padanya?

Mungkin memang pola pikir kita berbeda, dan kau cocok dengannya. Tetapi aku kasihan padanya karena merasa ia dimanfaatkan olehmu. Sama sepertiku dan teman-temanmu yang lain.

*

Kini aku membelanya. Setidaknya, dalam beberapa hal.

Bajingan, sungguh. Kau berkata tak serius dengannya, sementara ia dengan bangga mengunggah perasaannya pada dunia, berkata ia merasa kalian memiliki masa depan bersama.

Enggan, muak saat melihatmu melirik perempuan. Mendaftarkan angan dan mencoba mencocokkannya pada sebuah wajah.

Miris, aku bingung mengapa bisa jatuh karena makhluk sepertimu. Yang berkata-kata saja sembarangan. Yang mengaku pria sejati, namun lebih menghindari kenyataan daripada banci. Maaf. Mungkin mereka tak sudi dibandingkan denganmu kalau mengetahui kau seperti apa. Setidaknya mereka nyata-nyata menyatakan menghindari kenyataan.

Pikirkan saja kelakuanmu itu. Sungguh, masih pantaskah kau untuknya—untuk perempuan manapun?

Distance.

Inspired by a piece from Lang Leav.



 

I couldn’t figure out what I was doing wrong. So I explained how I feel to myself, trying to get an epiphany.

I felt like sinking. I felt like running on a treadmill set faster than any man could run. I felt like in space–floating, unable to breathe.

I felt like someone dangling off a cliff, grasping for someone to pull me up.

That’s it.

No matter how close we were, you’d never reach for me. It takes two to hold on to each other, two to close the distance. And I’m one short of the one who would love me back. The one who’d save me from myself.

So I fell off that cliff. I didn’t die, of course, because the fall never kills. It’s the impact. But my head’s so high up in the clouds I end up falling into the neverending space.

Now I long for that impact. But it’s not coming. At least no time soon.

And that, I fear, is much, much worse.

How It Feels

It feels wonderful. Like having a new pair of eyes that see the world through colour-tinted retinas. Even the weather becomes pleasantly biased. Usually blazing sunshine feels just right, and gloomy rain becomes a reason to snuggle in blankets and daydream.

It feels magical. Every bad thing coming my way doesn’t look scary. I know I’ll get through. I know I’ll make it. I know I’ll be okay. I have more faith that everything will fall in place at the end of the day. I’m at peace.

It’s such a pure and precious thing. It’s sincere and comes from the heart. So intense, yet calming at the same time. Bubbly yet tranquil. Such a fragile thing, but so pleasant to carry around.

I never want to let this go.

And that’s exactly why it sucks so much. My gut feeling tells me this won’t last as long as I want it to. Reality brings too much pain for me to enjoy the full exquisiteness of it. My head says it’s okay to feel this way, but I have to brace myself because the shattering truth will come with an impact that’ll crush me into unrecoverable grains of ache, what once was, and what I hope could be.

As if what I’m feeling is an illusion that sucked me out of reality, while in reality, as abstract as it is, I can’t deny that it’s so. very. real.

I’m scared of it coming to an end. Still, since it’s bittersweet, it’ll probably end only if the former overwhelms the latter. I’m scared of that too, I guess. I want to enjoy this while it lasts. I wish it’ll last long enough.

Every beautiful thing reminds me of how fleeting they are. Bliss reminds me of how we look for happiness in the emptiest things, ways, or state that we’re in. It becomes a constant annoying each that you can’t reach and won’t go away. It ruins the feeling.

I’m ashamed at myself because I’m unable to muster up this kind of happy on my own and it has to come from an external factor. Then again, knowing social contact has exclusive perks is quite nice. And by “nice”, I mean both in the archaic and modern sense of the word.

Maybe this is just a waste of time; writing about this kind of thing. Then again, if I don’t, I won’t have an outlet to keep myself from the bad kind of insanity.

I’ll just focus on feeling for now, while I still can.

Fuck, I’m such a mess.

Oh well.

To Who Once Was My Muse

Dearest muse of mine,

You were the first real thing that made my pencil move to write rhymes. I don’t remember what I wrote, but I do know why—you somehow drove me to it. I, who didn’t even know what I was doing, took my first step into the wonderful world of words. It’s been quite a ride.

Litter darling muse, you weren’t the first thing to inspire me. Art, nature, abstract things like ideas, even beliefs—all these things have inspired me before. But it’s always been just a jumbled mess of basic words like “bat” and “mat” and “cat”. When you came, my head went silent. I just closed my eyes and I felt the words. It’s magical. It was and still is. I’ll always treasure this. I wish I had the courage to tell you.

Precious muse, I found something I wrote four years ago. Have you ever gotten flashbacks of your early days learning the guitar? Placing the wrong fingers, getting the wrong chords, not even being able to strum properly? It must be embarrassing. That’s how I felt when I saw those cheesy lines. I still need to learn a lot. I’ll get there, though. I’ll make sure of it.

Lovely muse, thank you for five years of inspiration. Of poetry and imagination. With every “what if” came pain, but I also gained from it. I’ve created hundreds of lines and verses from strands of thoughts. Of you.

Sweet muse, I’m sorry, but I’ve started to forget little things about you. The stream from the river called Life has carried you a long way, and remnants of you shall remain, stuck in the banks. Yet, it’s only a matter of time before you’re carried off to the sea as a forgotten fragment from my past. These days, I can’t always remember your smile, your eyes, and even how you made me feel once upon a time.

I’m afraid, dear muse. What I’ll create with only thought could never compare to those carved by sentiments of the heart. The last two years, I’ve opened up my old wounds over and over again, fearing I’ll cease to feel inspired and the only thing I’ll write down are to-do lists and class notes. I was afraid the only stories I’ll write are for writing exams I need to pass. But I can’t live like that forever. I don’t want to. And as afraid as I am now, it’s even more terrifying to think I can’t find any other thing in this vast universe to inspire me.

Treasured muse, you’re a gem too heavy for me to keep carrying. I thought about throwing you away, but I never really had you, right? You’re a free creature—it’s why I, with all my insecurities (more than now, anyway), chose you in the first place. You see… a muse to me is a picture, an image, a being, containing what one doesn’t have but needs to see and feel and experience in order to create. You were just that for me. Yes—were. As in… past tense.

Glorious muse, you’ll never read this. You’ll never know. It’s frustrating but also a relief, since I know it’s not nice to barge in on someone’s life when you’re no longer a part of it. I didn’t know what we had—or if we ever had anything at all—but whatever it is, I enjoyed it.

Beautiful muse, I’ll never forget what you once meant to me. You simply see the beauty in everything, and I saw the simple beauty that is you. I’ve caught a glimpse of your world, and how wonderful it is! Now I have to make my own way. One day, I’ll see everything in its beauty just like you, just not how you do it.

Beloved muse, I’m running out of words again. For now, at least. They’ll come to me again, I’m sure. It’s sad, really—I’ve written thousands of words about you and because of you, but never once have I told this or shown a piece to you. And the millions of words still to come… well, some of them will be about you, but they’ll be about other things too.

I started this letter with the word “dearest”, and dearest you have been. But you won’t always be, sadly. This is my goodbye and farewell. Once again, thank you.

When I find my next muse, my next inspiration, whomever or whatever it may be, I’ll write better things in a better way as best as I can. I’ll have learnt more vocabulary, learnt to rhyme better, express myself freer. Still, remember this: you’ll always be the first one. And that can’t ever be changed by anyone.

Besides… who else can get me out of bed at 2.30 am to grab a pen and clipboard and start writing—on a toilet seat?

My love and prayers,

a shadow from your past

July 20th 2014

History of Words and Me #1

So I just felt like blabbering about my life and how words in all kinds of forms have shaped it so much. Maybe it’s not so much about “how” but I think you’ll see when you read it since it’s become part of who I am.

The child within screams,
“Tell me a story! Any story!”
But I had to settle with bad dreams
for I wasn’t fortunate to have bedtime tales.

I’ve always loved stories. Any kind of stories. Fairy tales, fables, myths, name it! I admit, I’m not a fan of horror stories, but in my defence, it’s because of my vivid imagination. But I’ll save that for later.

I’m an early reader. My mom used to work at a small bank that had a magazine stand in front of it. Dad used to pick her up from work when we only had one car, and I loved to tag along because then there’s a good chance she’ll buy me a magazine. My favourite, as many kids’ are, was Bobo—a blue, green-haired rabbit. I barely remember a thing about it now, but that’s my starting point to where I am now.

You see, I used to have nightmares almost every night. I remember them even now. They’re always the same. I wake up in my bed and see some kind of scary creature beside my bed—vampires, skeletons, monsters, kuntilanak, pocong, name it. (If you don’t know about the last two feel free to Google them since I don’t want to discuss the two. Ugh.) Then I wake up for real.

Anyway, these nightmares kept happening to the point where they bore me. I remember one time I actually sighed because I was already fed up, then I looked to my right and saw a dancing skeleton. I guess that explains my lack of fear towards it now, huh? Well, there’s a silver lining for you.

But these nightmares gave me vivid imagination. Sure, they’re scary—even now I can imagine freaky stuff with my eyes wide open—but in time they helped foster my love for stories. It’s freaky, but true. To tell the truth, I’m fine with watching horror movies most of the time. It’s when night comes I get anxious. You see, I’ve been sucked into movies in my dreams. It’s happened dozens of times. But who’d want to be in a horror movie? They never turn out to suck in my dreams; always manage to keep me awake at night. So, yeah, that’s it for how I got my imagination.

So, back to my early childhood—reading kid magazines. I’m a curious person. Was then, still now. I wanted to know what the characters were saying, the explanations to the pictures and illustrations. I often asked my nanny and parents to read them for me. They did, but were soon fed up with me. I kept asking questions, I kept asking them to read more. They said they were busy and tired. So I learnt how to read it myself. I only asked for words I didn’t understand.

(But my parents are great with that. No matter how mad they are at me, even when they’re cursing at me, I can always ask them about any kind of word I don’t get, and they’ll answer me. It’s kind of cool, really.)

Here’s something I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone: I was shit lonely. I didn’t go outside and play with other kids for some reason; it’s too long ago and I was too young to remember. All I had were my fairy tales. My parents spent time with me, sure. But they never read me any bedtime stories. I wanted them really bad. The closest thing to a bedtime story I got was my grandma’s stories.

My grandma lives out of town, but when she comes to visit, we’d sit together on the terrace of my old house and she’d tell me all kinds of adventures about Hengky, my neighbour’s pet monkey. I don’t know where the hell they got him from, but he’s there. He’s a cheeky one alright, so they keep him on a leash that’s long enough so he could move around, but short enough so he won’t jump into the houses to the left or right and steal stuff.

Oh, damn. This is depressing for me, you know? The trip down memory lane. It’s just… it’s the reason why I spent so much time with my grandma. It’s the same thing with my sister. We both loved stories as kids. Only, she grew out of it, while my love for them only grew. Hengky’s probably long dead now, but I still recall his stories and how my grandma makes funny sound effects just to make me laugh. When she’s around and I get scolded, she’d make the stories extra happy just so I’d smile again. Ah, I miss those days.

Well, that’s it for now. ‘Til next time, folks.

She Taught Me to Smile Anyway

CANCER.

So… did I get your attention? Or were you by chance searching for posts tagged with the word? Either way, you’re welcome to read this post, or not if you don’t feel comfortable. But this won’t be about me or someone I know surviving cancer, or an inspirational story related to it. This story won’t have a happy or sad ending, because I don’t even know if it’s ended yet.

There’s this girl I kind of know who has cancer. “Kind of know”? Yeah. The thing is, we live in the same city, and last year (or was it two years ago?) we frequent the same mall, and at the same spot; the bookstore.

How do I know she has cancer? Aside the bald head protected under a crochet cap, she has that sick look. Do you know it? That look when you can just tell.

So, back to this girl. I’ve seen her a couple of times, usually with her parents. Sometimes she’s alone too.  But it’s almost always at the bookstore. And in percentage, she mostly look at the same books I do. But I’m not going to talk about that.

It’s the stares she gets.

I know, I know. I’ve done it too. But after the first three or four times I see her, I could just notice her, go “Oh! It’s her.” and go back to whatever it is I’m doing. One time, I decided to look at the other people. The ones who were staring. Like I did.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not going to rant about how inconsiderate people are, staring at strangers. I do it a lot. We all do, don’t we? It may be a pastime while waiting for a friend in the toilet, a hobby, or there’s someone who piques your interest; like this girl. I’ve personally never met anyone with cancer, and I’m thankful for it.

These people had different kinds of stares. Some were just curious like I was, a few had crunched eyebrows, maybe they feel uncomfortable seeing her. Others (most, actually) had a sympathetic look towards her. I saw this and shook my head. Personally, unless I’m presenting something or doing a speech, I don’t like it when I get that kind of attention.

That made me realise something; the disease itself isn’t always so bad as how people react to it. In a smaller magnitude, I know the feeling. When I was a kid, whenever I coughed my mom would make a big deal out of it. It’s annoying. I can’t imagine the kind of things she goes through on a daily basis. Sure, it’s a sign of sympathy and love, but it makes life and living that much more uncomfortable when you’ve been stripped away of your health already.

But you know what? One time—I forgot if I was staring at her or not—our eyes met by accident. We both blinked. I stifled a smile, trying to look sorry or at least to make the moment less awkward. She giggled and slightly nodded at me.

And she smiled. At me. Staring at her.

i feel ashamed. At the time, I vaguely remember being in a bit of a pickle myself, though I don’r recall what it was, so it must’ve been solved, muhaha! Still, every now and again I think back to that moment. If I were her, I’d probably sneer at people who look at me, or avert my gaze. But she managed to smile in the face of people who doubt her odds of surviving.

Honestly, I want to stare at her. She’s the kind of beautiful I like. You should see her face light up like a kid when she picks up a potential book she might buy. I like that kind of look on people. It’s like their eyes sparkle and they have this happy glow or something—I can’t describe it, but if you’ve seen it, you know what I mean. And as cliché as it sounds, she’s so full of life.

I don’t see her anymore these days. I don’t know whether we just don’t cross paths anymore, or she’s moved away, or too weak to go out these days, or the worst case scenario, already gone. I really hope she’s doing fine. Whenever I see a crochet cap, I think of her, though in instant flashes. She taught me without saying anything that whatever the world throws at you, you just gotta smile anyway.

And it’s okay to be sad. In fact, wallow in your sadness every once in a while—it’s good for you. Just make sure you throw all the sad feelings away in time to enjoy what little—or the lot—that you can.

Di Sudut Toko Buku, Aku Menemukan….

Sebelumnya aku ingin minta maaf. Momen itu seharusnya diketahui dua orang dan Tuhan saja. Jadi, sekali lagi, maaf atas kelancangan aku yang tak tahu diri. Aku hanya ingin menikmatinya–membuat ingatan itu terpatri. Hanya itu saja. Tak ada maksud apa-apa.

Ah! Kalian tentu termangu menerka apa yang sedang kubicarakan? Mari, kujelaskan.

Sederhana. Saat sedang menyesap segelas kepahitan yang ditawarkan hidup (iya, iya, kopi) aku merasa bosan. Syahdan kedua kaki dan otak berkoordinasi, membawaku ke hadapan toko buku. Tak ayal aku melangkah masuk layaknya mengunjungi rumah teman akrab, atau bahkan domisili sendiri.

Melewati deretan buku dalam negeri, mataku mencari rak penyangga karya dari negeri di seberang lautan. Setelah menemukannya, lantas aku mulai melihat-lihat. Seperti biasa. Sejauh ini, tak ada yang istimewa.

Lalu, aku mendengarnya.

Sayup-sayup telingaku menangkap suara tawa dan kata “polisi”. Sontak aku menoleh, refleks rasa penasaran akan apa yang sedang terjadi. Tak ayal, apa yang kulihat selanjutnya berhasil mengukir senyuman.

Ada seorang ibu duduk bersila. Di lengannya sang anak bertumpu. Ia sedang membacakan komik Tin-Tin untuk anaknya. Membuat suara-suara para tokoh dan bhakan efek suara yang ada. Sesekali ia menunjuk ke arah gambar agar si anak mengerti sudah sampai mana ia bercerita. Kali lain ia melirik sang buah hati untuk memastikan ia memperhatikan. Melihatnya terpaku pada cerita, ia tersenyum.

Sederhana. Yang ada hanya sejauh itu. Saat aku menorehkan kata dengan pensil yang kalian lihat dalam ulangan berbentuk ketikan, aku bahkan sudah tak ingat apa yang mereka kenakan. Padahal satu jam pun belum berlalu. Tetapi memang bukan kenangan yang ditinggalkan, melainkan kesan.

Bagi yang belum tahu, mari, kujelaskan sesuatu. Yang sudah tahu, sabarlah membaca. Berhenti di sini juga tak apa-apa.

Aku sudah bisa lancar membaca lebih dini dari anak kebanyakan. Majalah anak seperti Bobo dan AMI (Anak Manis Indonesia) kulahap dengan rakus seolah tulisan tersebut akan ngambek dan menghilang jika tak segera ku baca. Namun hal yang mungkin banyak orang tua syukuri itu ada sebabnya.

Begini, wahai pembaca budiman. Aku membaca karena tak ada yang membacakannya untukku. Menyedihhkan? Sedikit. Mungkin.

Layaknya anak usia belia lain, mungkin saat itu imajinasiku berada di puncaknya. Syahdan aku menjadi seperti orang gila mencari apa saja untuk dijadikan bahan khayalan. Orang tua lelah kuteror. Susterku tak sudi. Setelah berkontemplasi kuputuskan membacanya sendiri. Orang lain hanya ku ganggu jika aku tak memahami makna suatu kata. Demikian cuplikan masa kecilku.

Nah, melihat si ibu tadi, timbul rasa haru dan iri. Haru, karena di era teknologi modern si ibu yang bisa “menelantarkan” anaknya dalam genggaman media hiburan mau repot-repot bersembunyi di sudut toko buku dan meluangkan waktu membaca untuk anaknya. Iri, karena memori seperti itu adalah kesempatan yang tak pernah aku dapatkan. Rasanya hati ini terenyuh.

Rasanya aku berlebihan menyikapi apa yang terlihat selampau pandangan. Apa begitu menurutmu? Tetapi memang itu yang kurasakan. Salahkah? Kurasa tidak.

Tanpa sadar aku sudah menulis sebanyak ini. Ternyata aku lebih melankolis dari yang kukira. Mungkin itu hal baik. Entahlah.

Perlu kau tahu, si anak merangkak ke dalam pangkuan ibunya. Mungkin jika aku erus mengamati aku akan sempat melihatnya terlelap. Mungkin tidak. Aku takkan pernah tahu. Yang pasti si ibu langsung bersikap sedikit lebih waspada melihatku. Maaf, Bu. Aku akan pergi sebelum terkena laknan karena menerobos privasi momen ibu dan anak.

Tetapi, tak sempat ku ucapkan terima kasih. Karena kau membuatku percaya lagi. Bahwa masih ada orang yang rela–bahkan mau–membacakan cerita untuk anaknya. Bahwa ada yang cukup peduli.

Mungkin aku takkan melihat adegan serupa untuk waktu yang lama. Tak apa-apa. Ini sudah cukup. :)

Inner Monologue on Trust

I wrote this yesterday at about 11 p.m. out of boredom and a sudden rush to start scribbling down something. Anything. So, of course, I chose to write a rant. How typical of me, eh?


I can’t trust you. I just can’t. Maybe. A bit. For a while. Then you’ll prove me wrong. It happens all the time. What’s with the human tendency to mess up so badly? It’s like we’re built to disappoint everyone. Even ourselves. Especially ourselves.

I can’t trust you. I just can’t. Maybe. If it’s only a piece of me. No one’s been able to love all of me. They want me to change. They think I’m deranged. A loony. A nutter. A girl who should look and behave better. So I open myself up and I get dissected. Way to welcome me into reality, world.

I want to trust you. I just can’t. It’s not you, nor me. It’s everyone, you see? I can barely trust my own self, and people expect me to ensure stuff in their hands? Malarkey! I call on people like them, many fail to deliver their promises. Tasks, maybe. Obligations, sure. But nothing of personal importance, really. They fail in things, petty some seem, but nonetheless important to me.

I want to trust you. I wonder if I can. My youth doesn’t mean I have no scars.

I’ve already learnt people talk the loudest to people from afar. Anonymous strangers they’ll never even meet. I understand. I do. Anything these faceless voices say will probably bear no harm on you. They’re not the ones you’re trying to please. You could get over their comments with more ease.

I want to trust you. Maybe I can. Perhaps. Just not with all of me. I’ll work out what I can and can’t say to you. When I’m ready, if I’m ever ready, we’ll follow through. It’s not that bad, is it? Let’s see how this will go for a while.

I think I can trust you. Do you think that way too? Or will I just be an unnecessary burden to you? That wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all. Let me know if I’ve given too much info. If things ever go too far.

I think I can trust you. Maybe I have. It’s alright, if it’s just this much. Yeah, just this much.

Melepasmu

Apa kau tahu selama ini aku memperhatikanmu? Tak pernah benar-benar berhenti melihat tiap rinci. Apa kau tahu selama ini banyak yang tak ingin melepasmu? Entah karena tak rela atau demi sesuatu dari masa lalu bernama memori. Dan aku tahu kau lelah, betapapun kau mencoba pasrah. Aku tak ingin membuat kekesalanmu bertambah parah.

Sejujurnya banyak yang ingin kusampaikan. Tentang pikiran dan perasaan. Tidak hanya milikku. Bukan. Kebanyakan dari orang-orang lain, bahkan. Orang-orang yang menganggapmu lebih dari sekedar teman.

Sejujurnya, mungkin aku sudah bukan salah satunya.

Asli kau teman berbincang yang asyik. Kita bisa meladeni segala candaan dan sindiran tanpa tersinggung atau terusik. Entah apa kau pernah merasa, tetapi sekali aku jatuh pada pikiranmu yang indah. Aku kagum saat kau bisa memanipulasi pembicaraan dan tak ada yang menyadari. Dan saat mereka mengaku mengenalmu, aku tertawa dalam hati. Setidaknya, aku tahu aku tidak tahu. Jika boleh ku bertanya, apa kau juga tahu tentang dirimu?

Kau menginginkan kedewasaan. Kemandirian. Lepas dari segala beban. Lepas dari sebanyak mungkin pergumulan. Termasuk dari mereka yang kau anggap kawan.

Masalah mereka beban.
Mereka beban.

Aku beban.

Apa kau tahu kau juga beban?

Sesungguhnya kau hanya membuang waktu. Berlagak pasif tak akan menghentikan mereka yang mengejarmu. Bila tak sudi, katakan. Dengan senang hati aku akan meninggalkanmu sendirian.

Sempat ku berpikir… mungkin karena kau berlagak tidak peduli. Siapa yang bisa mengatakan bahwa kau memang peduli? Aku lelah. Jika memang harus kehilangan persahabatan denganmu, biarlah.

My high school life is done. No more studying in class. No more talks about countries’ silly affairs and historical figures’ wackiness. No more protesting in class, begging a teacher to postpone a certain feared exam. No more hanging out at the canteen during recess.

byehighschool

This is just depressing. Like, I know this day was coming, but I just didn’t see it coming this fast. Time went by like a blur. Over the last few months it’s been monotone and boring, with try outs and motivational quotes and the stacks of questions teachers gave us for practice. But I enjoyed parts of it nonetheless. There’s always a laugh I could look for, moments to be forever encrypted into memory. Sure, they’ll be twisted into perfection, because we tend to savor the sweet things and focus on them more. That doesn’t change the fact they’re what I’ll have left. That, a yearbook, and various trinkets I’ve kept over the last three years or so.

I’m angry. I didn’t do my best. Both in studies and in life, though I’m mostly angry for the latter. I could’ve done a lot of things differently. Make time for my real friends more, drop the fake ones sooner. Stood up for what I loved doing harder. It’s too late for that now, and I’m happy where I am. It’s just my “what if” instinct kicking in, I guess.

They say you’ll never know how valuable something is until you lose it. I disagree. I know the days I’ve gone through are valuable. I just didn’t think I’ll be this sad once it’s over.

Well, there’s always memories. :)

So… today’s my 4th anniversary with WordPress.com! Yay!

And I’ve actually been here for a while, haven’t I? I registered long ago but chose to be dormant for half of it. Well, I won’t be now. I promise you that. :)

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