A (Rather) Critical Analysis of Relationship

It is all started in this semester when almost all the courses I took has a word ‘critical’ as the pre-modifier of the courses name. Firstly, I did not really like these courses for they ‘force’ me to keep questioning and thinking over everything. That was some kind of madness!

Since it is inevitable for me to run away from these courses, I started trying to like these courses instead. It turns out that I like these ‘critical’ things for it is substantially important skill in human’s life—or at least in my life. 

I realized that all the media; television, radio, newspapers, magazines, internet, and all of other media—by using discourse—are trying to construct the reality concerning things. Because of I was too lazy to even think, I succumbed to all the constructionists ideas and conceptions about reality. That was how I turned into a shallow and superficial person incapable of thinking deeply.

In the last previous days, I have been thinking over the term ‘relationship’. Although it is a kind of trifles, I find that there is a fatal error in the construction of relationship discourse by the media—including narratives all this time.

One of the ‘fatal errors’ is Plato’s The Symposium. In his writing, Plato says that according to Greek Mythology, humans were originally created with four arms, four legs, and a head with two faces. Zeus—who fears their power—split them into two separate beings, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves.

This excerpt is indeed romantic and somehow cute or something; but it proves that even since centuries ago, there is a false construction that human relationship is consist of a pair of people who are needy and desperate, then cling to each other because they are destined to be so. It is not a shocking fact if then almost all of romance stories portray relationship or love as a quest for finding somebody else to be complete.

The question is: is it really true that we are incomplete by being alone? 

Well… I did think so.

In my previous relationships, I thought that my girlfriend was the one who fulfilled me; who complemented me; and the one who filled the void in me. That was when I started being needy and desperate. Interestingly, my girlfriend thought so as well. All the relationships in my life have been a co-dependent relationship of two dysfunctional needy and desperate people who are incapable of independence.

The point is that I have to be capable of happy by myself, and only then, I can come together with another to create a great entity which is greater than the sum of the each of us. 

If you are now sitting and reading this post alone, feeling lonely and lack of something, and then you start to think, “if only I had someone or love to re-kindle the little spark of my dark heart, I would be happy and complete”, you are indeed needy and desperate. If you are needy and desperate, the person you will probably attract is either: 1) another needy and desperate person; or 2) nobody.

If you think that there might be someone who will finally complete you—which it will—you will never actually happy for your relationship will most likely turn to be sour, before it ends—or it will stay sour for eternity. Trust me!

The thing is that there is nothing that anyone in this world can offer me what I cannot offer myself. I am not saying that I do not need anybody else. Of course I need teachers to teach me, I need farmers to plant my rice and vegetables—I don’t like vegetables, but let me just mention it—or many more people. I am saying that the ‘need’ here is the psychological need; the feel that there is a void in my ego that need filling.

Let’s be happy by ourselves. Let’s be complete… and after that, let’s be happy together.

This is not entirely my idea; this writing is based on some books and sites I read. There is no such thing as my completely work.

The Photograph

This afternoon, I was rearranging my stuffs when I found some photo albums. When I grabbed one and took a look at it, apparently, it contains tons of photos when I was like four or five years old. I looked into how I was when I was a child, who is a lot cuter than how I am now. 

I am not good at remembering things; through these photos, however, I could clearly recall all the occasions. They are when I was in my 5th birthday, when my family and I were on vacation somewhere in Lembang, and so many more occasions. God, I remembered the time and felt the state of having a real and normal family. 

I took another photo album; it contains some photos when I was around seven. I was with my cousin to whom I had a fling—kinda stupid. It was familial love—like the forbidden love story in some of the Greek mythologies. That photo took my mind into that very day; it was in late afternoon when I came home from madrasah with her, and some of my other friends. At that time, I knew that my friend liked her, but I did not care about him; because I thought she liked me too—which I never find out the truth. What a load of craps.

I was so happy.

I feel so bad knowing the fact that I was, indeed, a lot happier than I am. Suddenly, I realize that I—and maybe most people—keep almost all the good memories in the form of this two-dimensional image—which eventually ended up in the warehouse.

or sometimes they are simply missing.

I never take any photograph when I am throwing rubbish, or get accident, or something terrible. In fact, I keep them and all of my bad memories in the form of images somewhere in my three-dimensional brain. That is why I sometimes get depressed; it is because what come up in my mind frequently are my bad memories, my childhood trauma, the time when I was bullied, and all what I think life has taken from me.

For so many years back, I was more comfortable being in noisy and crowded place because I was afraid that some bad memories just struck me any time when my mind is vacant. The worse thing is that I cannot cry. Well, sometimes I am proud that I have the quality of a real man—who never drops any tears since the birth. Anyway, there is a time when I simply need to cry. Indeed, crying cannot make any difference, but my eyes are like the dark cloud that needs to release its particles. 

its burden

This year—thanks God—I can control my own feeling through some meditations and self-reflection. I still cannot cry unless I watch a very touching movie--which is better than not-cry-at-all.

I, moreover, stand up to face any my worst nightmares that may come up anytime by being still and quiet. Sometimes I win, sometimes I lose; I do not know when this battle will end.

Missing

I felt this loneliness ever since I left the house I was in during the community service program. Well, here is the thing; I had never despised something than I did to this program. I hated this program for a couple of reasons; first, it deprived me from my girlfriend; and second, I did not like the people in my group.

The things turned out that I opposed all things about the community service program. I was being a nonchalant slug who slept all the time and turned myself against my group. Anyway, I did this so that I could see people from different perspectives from what I used to. I mean, I could see their reaction toward me from the perspective of a despicable and subordinate person, instead of a usual Hananta. Another reason, furthermore, was that I do not want any of the people in my group to like me, neither men nor women. I am not saying that they will like me if I am being my best self; it is just in case.

The things, however, were getting better as times goes by. The constant kindness from some of them and almost all of the community were like a slap on my face reminding me that there are still virtues even in my worst assumption concerning everything in the community service I despised.

One night, I could not sleep for the silences seemed to be the annoying noises on my ears. I heard sounds of the guilt from the past and the roaring demands from the future. I, then, turned the mp3 player and made some noises; the noises helped me sleep because it muffled all the metaphoric noises that may come from the unexpected chambers in my head.

The next morning, things even got better and I was being more supportive to this community service program. I tried to get into this program ever since.

On the third week, I was in my best mood. I love teaching the children Aqidah, Hadith, Fiqh, and some other religious things I had barely read. I love talking with the teenagers and the youth about how things worked this and that way. I love listening to the stories told by the old people. I love knowing that by then I realized that the society has always had an exotic stories and secrets that cannot be seen only with the analytic self-observation without plunging myself into the society; and one of the most important things is that I faced my greatest fear and answered my question about me delivering a sermon from the podium to be heard from all corners in the village.

Yesterday, I had to leave that village. I was happy at first that I would soon go home and meet my family. When I got home, however, things did not work as I expected. I took a shower and then found out that I missed the situation in that village already.

I feel so lonely.

Here is the thing about loneliness, it is nothing but a feeling we got after the accompaniment. It is the metamorphosis of togetherness that vanishes slowly or all at once.

I, however, have something to say about this loneliness. This is my own loneliness, the one that is born and died in me; not the one that anyone inflicted on me. 

Just

“Be with the person who loves you instead of with the one whom you love.”

That is a quote I have met frequently in most of romance stories. I have been reading a great deal of stories in my life, yet most of the stories tended to orient my subconscious into a thought that the best and easiest relationship is the one in which I am loved by a particular person.

“If she loves you, you just have to wait and let your heart get used to it.”

This is one of myriad comments and opinions from my friends concerning relationship that inject me with the thought of letting my conscious mind be as selfless as possible.

I have been trying to do that, being selfless. Well, it is actually a selfless thought to make other people happy simply by letting her love me while at the same time, I am trying to override my Id who always demand gratification.

I could have been a very happy person if I can implement that thought into my life. 

I have someone with whom I feel overwhelmed. I am a frigid who is overwhelmed by the constancy of her warmth and unconditional love. The problem, however, is that I do not love her, I love another person; the person with whom I feel complete; comfortable; and pleased. 

I am falling in love with a person whom I do not even know whether she loves me or not. I am the night who falls in love with the dawn who vanishes me. I am an economist who invests all my possessions into something dubious. I may be the most stupid person in this world, yet I am sure I am one of many people who feel the simple pleasure of pursuing my own heart.

I am an egoist and nonchalant person who do not think of another person’s feeling—not even mine. 

I do not care if this feeling was my undoing. 

I do not care if this feeling tore me into pieces.

I love you as I recite the last poem for you in the moment between I see a guillotine, until I see you throw my head away.

                                                                                                                                                     H.

Existentialist, Another Part of Me

In many occasions I am an existentialist. Albeit this individualist concept has been confronted by so many clergymen in general and the collectivists, yet, I think this philosophical doctrine is essential in my life. I have read so many books regarding the power of mind and its significance in the self; I, therefore, think that I am the one who is responsible for putting meaning into me. 

Semiotically speaking, I am a text; my name is the signifier of the concept of me and I am the signified of my name. I choose my name to mean something through the representation of my conceptions. If I do not put meaning into me, then, I am nothing but an empty signifier.

The meaning of existentialism is of course very broad; I however, will only use the aforementioned concept.

I see the world and all its content as an enigma and I am here to interpret this enigma to myself. So too others, people interpret this enigma differently to themselves. That is why I do not really think of what others may think of me because I am what I think about me.

I am not saying that I am an atheist who believe nothing but me. I do think that God really has His power over me, yet I will not just sit and wait for something to happen. God is the author of the book of my life. I can do nothing about the beginning, the ending and some parts of the story, yet I still can do many things about it and I can create interesting twist and turn to be the ornaments of my life.

One says that life is about living happily and creating new life. I nonetheless think that if it is so, then what is in a life? An ant, fly and rat are also alive and producing life. It must be something in this life more than just being alive. There must be something meaningful about life that is when we are willing to sacrifice our life for the sake of another important reasons; it can be for someone or something. I have been wondering that million deaths of my anonymous predecessors in the history of the liberty of humanity are more than just a puff of smoke in the oblivious past.

How about me? 

I do not know how many meanings I have invested into my simple life—whether or not it is enough to make me worthy of living—and its significance to others. When I died, I do not know how long does it takes until my name is pronounced for the last time; it sometimes bothers me.

Pretending 

For so many times I do pretend to myself as if I am a glossy, good, smart, and high-leveled man because I am what I think about me. If I thought that I am a lousy, low-leveled, and desperate guy, those are the quality of what I shall be. By pretending, I have the psychological advantages to at least put one of my feet into the quality I desirously wanted to be, not to mention the confidence I will gain.

Nihilist, a Little Part of Me

So far, I neither have anybody to throw my hatred at, nor do I antagonize anyone but myself; especially when I turned into a nihilist. 

At times, my ego seems to force me to think in the frame of this philosophical belief. By that time, I start thinking that my life is really pointless, meaningless, and only an ephemeral journey into blackness. I, moreover, continue pondering that all people in this world—including me—are doing merely boring and nonsense routines that lead into emptiness of death and inevitable oblivion. 

Before I was born into this world, I believe that I was somewhere which is better than this place, then, through an action which is the main biological function of all creatures—breeding—I was thrown into this filthy ‘pool’ in which then I soon become a filthy creature as well. No matter how often I take a bath, I stay filthy because everything in this universe is a mere filth. The only way I can make myself clean is to get out of this world, either through death or a transcendental contemplation in which I am incapable of doing in this helter-skelter parody of grim reality—there is even no longer reality in this chaotic world; the word ‘reality’ is only used to explain the concept of the long-gone-reality before it is contaminated by the idiocy of human ideologies in this realm of nothingness.

When I was a child, my parents overwhelmed me with their constant dreams and expectations which they were incapable of achieving in their life. I was taught their conceptions from other people’s conception of virtues, truth, righteousness, and norms constructed by the manipulative powerful politicians. By that time, now, and most likely until the end of my so-called life, I have been inhaling carbon monoxide, swallowing poison, contributing in a mass stupidity of arbitrary conventions, and annually celebrating the withering of me of what-so-called birthday.

In the interpersonal relationship, I feel all people hate me in everything that I do, since everything—either it is good or bad—will always be reflected badly in every retina of all gibbering spectators. I have nobody to share and nobody to talk to.

From all those thoughts I started being a nonchalant, egoistic bastard anyone has a misfortune of meeting.

These are few examples out of my myriads thoughts about my life when I am somehow turned into a nihilist, the dismissive of the virtues, and the follower of the nothingness. 

A nihilist part of me is the only problem I have—since I found it easy to deal with all problems that come from outside—so far. 

I see myself as a calm and patient person who always thinks before I do anything. My nihilist part, however, is merely a side effect of the latent anger I barely express.

In a normal situation, I am, actually, a mixture outcome of existentialism and predeterminism.

Used To #2

Again, I woke up with my heart pumping; my perspiration soaked me with all the fear and confusion of this repeated dream. I dreamt about my grandma. I saw the reflection of her as if a dispersed light amidst the unlimited blackness that started scratching me out. 

‘The concept of lose’, I said to myself and sighed, ‘I never understand those things.’

Like a tiny nostalgic spark, I remembered a story my grandma told me a few years ago about a young man who love a woman. Although I’d never known the ending of their story, their story was the best one I ever known apart from all the romantic scenes; yet that was the love in this real world.

I—along with my mom—walked to open my shop. This small shop was a little bit different after the death of my grandma. I used to lay by my grandma’s lap, listening to all the stories she told me enthusiastically. I remembered her wrinkled face and her smile.

Like usual, on Sunday, there were always many people jogged from everywhere to get some rest in here, ordered some pieces of gorengan and milk. These things, however, reminded me of my late grandma. She used to be here, taking the order and smiling to everyone.

Suddenly, I saw a tall young man sitting on the bamboo bench by himself, looking exhausted. It seemed to me that I knew this man even though I’d never seen him. He was the perfect picture of the character my late grandma had always told me about. 

After ordering a glass of milk, he sat, looking into the void. I was wondering what he was thinking, whether it was the young woman or not. I really wanted to ask him, yet I kept thinking of the way of asking which was less awkward.

Suddenly, I heard him ask me, “Where is the granny?”

“She is not here anymore”, said I, as I looked down.

“I am sorry to hear that, I haven’t been here for a long time”, he looked shocked, then he added, “she was a nice old lady; I can see from the warmth of her gaze.”

“Indeed”, I took a deep breath and said, “She used to tell me her stories about her and my grandpa, and juxtapose them with yours”.

“Did she?” he looked awkward. 

“Yeah”, I grinned, “your story is one of the inspiring ones to my grandma, and I bet you never expect that it is the best story I have ever known.”

“That was a nice hyperbole anyway”, he laughed, “You, then, have to watch and read better romance stories, kid”.

“I’m not a kid”, I snapped up. Then, enthusiastically I asked, “Can you tell me the next sequel your story with that young woman, please”

“O God”, he sighed, “It just did not work out, kid. Anyway, it is what is supposed to be.”

“But why?” I crossed, “You will make a good couple. My grandma told me that you love her wholeheartedly. She said that you two are supposed to be tied together with the bond of love.”

He laughed as if it was so funny, what an annoying man. I, then, went inside my shop.

“Hey kid”, he called, “I did bestow my love upon her, but somehow everything is just losing by itself. It is the concept of lost. You may lose someone abruptly, in a gap between two blinks of eyes”; now, he looked as if he meant it, “…or you may begin losing pieces of someone, until one day, there is naught.”

“But you are my favorite character”, my eyes wet, “You supposed to struggle for her and live happily ever after.”

“There are many good people out there, kid. I am nothing but a worthless young man who is overwhelmed by the hatred of all people around me.”

He grinned. I somehow could see beyond his calm and ignorant face that he was in grief. 

“Life is different from all the stories about life. It, however, is not necessarily worse or less beautiful. Anyway, it depends on whether this person is worth struggling or not, kid.” He explained, “When some people come as a blessing, some others come as a lesson.”

I kept silent.

“Things work not the way you want, but the way it is supposed to be. You will know it when you grew up, kid”, he added.

“I did not understand”, I said, “What am I supposed to say to my grandma then?”

“Tell her that we live separately and happily ever after”, he said before he disappeared.

Right Hemisphere, Love, and Academic Life

Have you ever experienced a situation wherein you are incapable of adding any word into your paper? I was.

Have you ever spent a night—or two—sitting in front of your computer, watching the words in your final paper dancing as if they were mocking at you? While in other situation, you can write twenty-page-long story in hours? I was.

This is not about the capability or incapability of expressing thoughts, my friends; this is about loving or hating something—in this case, a subject.

This semester, when I read some research and articles on brain—for my presentation—I got bored reading the facts about left hemisphere of the brain, so without any serious purposes, I  leisurely clicked on other articles about the right hemisphere of the brain. That day, I found out that there is somewhere in our brain that affects our feeling and impression on everything.

Okay, I know this things about left and right hemisphere of the brain may baffle you, friends. So let’s make it simpler.

Due to the lateralization, our brain is divided into two hemispheres, in our right hemisphere, there is a hormone called Dopamine—the generic term is the Pleasure Center. This Dopamine controls our impression on everything. Science, moreover, has proven that the brain of someone who is in love is similar with the one of the drug users, and this thing is because of the Dopamine.

When we love something—or someone—our brain will release the Dopamine that makes everything pleasurable. When we hate something—like some particular subjects—it happens conversely, that is the condition in which we are nagging, crying, sighing, or even cursing on the things we hate, and we cannot do or have.

It happened to me on previous semesters when I hate a subject, the universe seems to make everything related to that subject frustrating.

In this semester, however, I love—or trying to love—all the subjects I take. For that reason, no matter how hard those subjects rained me with the overwhelming assignments, the Dopamine released by my right hemisphere creates a state of pleasurable atmosphere in my mind. It is like the universe conspires to help me finish all the assignments.

That is why I can finish all assignment in the matter of minutes—or hours.

It also goes to people, when we love someone, our right hemisphere release the Dopamine; therefore, it seems like the universe starts romanticizing everything that makes us happy.

So, start loving and keep loving things—or people!

P.S. I do not put any reference regarding this post because I read it a long time ago, and again, I forget the sources. It is a mere intermezzo of mine, in the middle of editing on my proposal. Anyway, thanks to the scientists for such a good inspiration.

Proaktif dan Reaktif

Saya sering berkunjung ke blog teman-teman saya untuk sekedar baca-baca, namun terkadang terasa merasa malas membacanya, bukan karena bahasa Inggrisnya tidak bagus, hanya saja terkadang saya merasa malas untuk membaca tulisan berbahasa Inggris—sehingga harus melakukan dua proses kognitif sekaligus. Jadi, walaupun tulisan berbahasa Indonesia saya tidak sebagus jika saya menulis dengan bahasa Inggris—yang sebenarnya memang belum bagus juga—kali ini saya menulis dengan menggunakan bahasa Indonesia karena saya menganggap bahwa ini merupakan hal yang cukup penting untuk dibaca oleh teman saya yang bukan hanya dari jurusan bahasa Inggris.

Ada dua terminologi yang telah mengubah kehidupan saya—Reaktif dan Proaktif. Kerapkali saya menilai orang terlalu cepat dengan hanya memperhatikan dua tipe ini. Yaitu orang yang reaktif dan proaktif.

Saya sendiri mendefinisikan ‘reaktif’ sebagai perilaku yang didasari atas emosi, sehingga orang yang reaktif dalam menghadapi suatu masalah, cenderung tidak bisa menggunakan logikanya. Hal ini menyebabkan permasalahan tersebut bukannya terselesaikan, malah terasa semakin berat baik secara psikologis orang tersebut, maupun pada kenyataannya, karena memang psikologis akan memengaruhi realitas. Sedangkan ‘proaktif’ bermakna sebaliknya.

Sebagai contoh, karena saya tinggal di Bandung, macet sudah bukan hal yang baru, malah sudah menjadi bagian dari keseharian. Pada suatu hari, entah mengapa lalu-lintas bandung macet total, tingkat emosi para pengguna jalan pun saya rasa meningkat—diindikasikan banyaknya frekuensi klakson dan umpatan-umpatan mereka—namun, berteriak dan marah-marah tentu saja tidak bisa mengubah macet; yang ada malah membuat situasi semakin parah. Pada saat itu saya coba untuk tenang dan berdiam diri, buat apa marah-marah? Memang itu bisa mengubah keadaan? Pada saat itu, seketika saya memaksa alam bawah sadar saya untuk tenang, dan dampaknya malah saya tidak merasa kesal sama sekali.

Pernah, pada suatu pagi, konsentrasi saya di kelas hancur hanya karena perasaan kesal atas kemacetan, saya merasa bodoh sekali pada saat itu karena suasana hati saya sendiri yang telah merusak kesempatan otak saya untuk mencerna materi kuliah pada saat itu, sejak saat itulah saya tidak pernah menyia-nyiakan potensi otak saya yang maksimalnya saja hanya bisa digunakan beberapa persennya saja.

Contoh lainnya, baru-baru ini ketika saya medaftar KKN, saya menghadapi suatu hasil yang mungkin sebagian orang mengganggap ini hal penting. Pendaftaran KKN dibuka pukul 4 sore, dan seketika seluruh mahasiswa—khususnya mahasiswa UPI angkatan 2011—berlomba mendaftar di daerah yang menjadi favorit mereka. Karena pedaftarannya dilakukan secara online, pada saat itu, saya sudah bersiap-siap didepan laptop agar tempat tujuan saya tidak keburu penuh.

Setelah cukup lama menunggu akhirnya pendaftaran KKN pun dibuka, ternyata pada dua menit pertama, tempat tujuan saya sudah penuh kuotanya sehingga saya mencoba memilih tempat tujuan saya yang kedua, namun sayangnya, tempat kedua pun telah penuh. Kemudian saya melihat-lihat lokasi KKN yang lainnya yang mulai dipenuhi juga.

Karena terlalu lama berpikir, ternyata hampir semua lokasi yang tersedia sudah penuh dan hanya tersedia satu lokasi—lokasi yang paling tidak diinginkan—yang sebelumnya sering saya lontarkan sebagai bahan bercandaan kepada teman-teman saya.

Disitu, saya bisa saja menangis dan menyesali keterlambatan dan ke-plin-plan-an saya dalam memilih. Namun saya menyadari bahwa hal itu tidak akan menyelesaikan masalah, yg ada malah membuat saya tidak bisa berpikir dengan jernih. Pada saat itu, analisis situasional saya malah menyuruh saya untuk tidak memilih lokasi manapun. Selanjutnya, saya rasa saya tidak perlu menceritakan bagaimana saya akhirnya bisa mendapatkan lokasi yang lebih baik daripada yang bisa saya dapatkan pada saat itu.

Ketika menghadapi suatu permasalahan, ada dua metode yang bisa digunakan. Orang-orang reaktif akan mencari letak dan penyebab permasalahan untuk disesali (problem-oriented). Sedangkan orang-orang proaktif akan mencari solusi yang memungkinkan yang bisa diterapkan untuk memecahkan masalah (solution-oriented).

Saya teringat kepada Sherlock Holmes—satu-satunya tokoh favorit saya—yang sering mengatakan bahwa emosi adalah hal yang merusak logika dan analisisnya, dan hal inilah yang menyebabkannya tidak mau berpacaran, menikah, ataupun mengenal cinta dan hal lainnya yang menyangkut perasaan dan emosi—yang didefinisikannya sebagai ‘Human Error.’ Hal ini bisa dilihat dari, satu-satunya titik lemah Holmes yang notabene merupakan sahabatnya sendiri, John Watson.

Menjadi orang yang proaktif merupakan hal yang sangat ingin saya terapkan dalam kehidupan saya. Ketika dihadapkan kepada permasalahan seperti apapun, saya akan berusaha tetap tenang untuk mencari jalan keluar untuk memecahkannya. Hal ini juga lah yang menyebabkan saya sering menyendiri. Jadi, teman-teman, ketika saya menyendiri, itu tandanya saya sedang memikirkan suatu solusi untuk memecahkan sebuah permasalahan yang besar (saya selalu merasa bahwa permasalahan saya adalah tanggungjawab saya), namun ini tidak semerta-merta berarti bahwa saya tidak pernah bercerita ataupun meminta saran dan bantuan teman-teman saya; semakin saya diam dan menyendiri, semakin besar pula lah permasalahan yang sedang saya hadapi.

Semuanya ada didalam kepala kita, yang perlu kita lakukan adalah memaksimalkan pemikiran kita dengan cara memperkecil tingkat bias-bias emosi yang akan memengaruhi analisis dan solusi yang sedang kita pikirkan.

Sekali lagi saya ingin mengingatkan kepada semua teman-teman saya bahwa ketika saya menyendiri dan diam tak berekspresi, atau tidak tertawa mendengar lelucon-lelucon orang, itu bukan berarti saya mencoba menjadi orang yang sok cool atau apalah itu, saya hanya ingin berdialog—dalam jangka waktu tertentu—dengan bagian diri saya yang lain.

N.B. Saya membaca materi tentang proaktif dan reaktif beberapa tahun yang lalu, dan saya lupa dari buku apa, karya siapa. Bukunya pun sudah tidak ada. Namun yang pasti, tulisan ini hanyalah ekspresi, interpretasi, dan representasi dari saya atas ide milik orang lain—bukan ide saya.

Unexpected Journey #1

"Great things always come when I stepped outside my comfort zone."

At 10 P.M. on 8th April 2014, I went home with the tired body and weary mind. After had a bath, I threw myself into my bed and soon, I came back into the realm of my unconscious mind. I did not know what happened inside of me, I, however, was sure it was a blast that woke me up. I glanced at the clock hanging on my wall; it was 2 A.M in the morning. I tried to sleep again, but I just could not. Anyway, that was me, I could neither sleep in the evening, nor could I wake up in the morning. Such a strange!

That day, I thought of everything, every happiness and sadness that had formed me to what I am. I was listening of the ticking sound of my clock when suddenly something happened, I did not know what it was. There was a huge urge from my conscious mind to just go away from my house. At that very time –around 4 A.M. —I took my bag and started packing up. I did not know where I was going; like a branch in the middle of the river stream, I just followed where the fate of the great river took me.

It was 6 o'clock in the morning when I realized that I was no longer in my comfort zone. I was in Jakarta!

I did not know for sure where my body took me. Shortly after got down from the shuttle, I took a commuter train. I got on to the first train and sat; it was rather strange and uncomfortable in that compartment but I could not explain it, all the eyes seemed to rain me with thousands presuppositions. 

I saw a woman with a uniform come after me. She looked into my eyes and then crouched, "excuse me, this is a women's compartment", she said.

With a frowning face, I responded, "I beg your pardon?"

"This is the compartment for women, men are not allowed. You can move back through that door", she pointed a door which connected the compartments.

And then I walked to that door. Such a shame!

I was at Gambir station at 7 o'clock in the morning. 

There, my story begins

(to be continued)

2nd Letter

Dear my Dearie

How are you there? 

I have been thinking that you are right about everything. I should not have told you what I feel about you, since it bother you so much. I should have kept it in my mind only, like I do ever since.

I am so sorry for everything I had done to you, all the intrusions. I should have been out of your lawn; staring at you at a distance, smiling.

Anyway, there is one thing I really thank you. Thanks for coloring my colorless life. My life is no longer an empty paper now, there’re ripped, scrawls, rumpled parts; I, however, like it.

I do hope you will fell the happiness I felt every time I think and dream of, you.

I do hope there will be someone out there who will give you the opportunity to experience the love your eyes have given me, not what your heart did.

I do hope you will always be happy.

I do hope your boyfriend love you like you love him because I don’t want you to experience the broken heart I felt.

H.

Normality

“Well, this is the life I had to get through”, I said.

“But why?” he frowned, “you don’t have to be like this. There are so many good places out there. Those were what people called life!”

“Because my father told me not to”, I looked into his brown eyes, “I am his daughter, so what I have to do is to do what he want.”

I heard him utter no word. There was it, the sound I hated most; the deafening silence. I could almost hear the ticking of the clocks, the blast of the wind, and his pounding heartbeats. I rather heard him blabbering than be in this uncomfortable state of quiet. At the very end of every relationship I ever had, there was always a silence before the last look, and then leaving as the dark clouds in my eyes began releasing its particles.

Then I took a deep breath and started talking, “when I was a girl, shortly after my mom passed away in a car accident, my father always asked me to be careful wherever I am. He asked me to live like all normal people, just be in a straight path. My dad had his servant drive me everywhere I went. That was the time when everyone started to go away from me, all the boys began treating me as if I was fragile.”

“How do you feel about that?”

I took a piece of tissue in case I needed it, and then looked at his puzzled face “at first, I got it wrong; but then I feel that my dad is somehow right, everything may befall me.”

He said nothing.

“That is why I have never been camping or doing anything out of what-so-called comfort zone. It sometimes bothers me, yet here I am, safe and sound”, I replied without looking at him, “…and I hope, you love me just the way I am.”

He stared down onto the floor, smiling, “yeah, I love you and I am not in any way of changing you.” He put on his coat as if he wanted to leave.

“Wait!” I stood up, “I thought you love me.”

“I do love you dearie and I will always; I am not denying this infatuating feeling”, he threw me a cold smiled, “leaving you does not mean that I stop loving you. I have just loved you enough; and now, I will just love you from an invisible spaces and indefinable time. I will love you in unnoticeable way; within the beats of your heart, the blinks of your eyes, and the breath of your lungs.”

My mind was about to vomit all my thoughts but my lips uttered no words.

By the threshold, he stopped, ”normal people in my town prefers staying at bright places in the evening for a comfortable and safe reasons; for that reasons, they had never seen the beauty of fireflies, they do not even know there is firefly.”

That very second, he threw his last look into my eyes before the last time I saw him.

I could notice my quiver feet that could have walked after him;

I could see my trembling two hands that could have held him;

I could feel my twitching lips that could have called him back;

…yet, I did nothing but seeing him walking further and further away from me.

…and he has gone..

Farewell

On the threshold I leaned, looking into her two wet eyes. My hands trembling, my head dizzy, my quiver lips let me utter no words. I kept looking at her sitting on the corner of this small chamber with raised-head. We had enough reason to be together; yet we had enough reason to fall apart too, differences.

I had so many things to say, but all my words were just stuck in my throat, allowing me not to say anything, but silence. In all the awkwardness and conflict between us, suddenly my thoughts were just flying to the very first time when I buried my heart into hers. I almost could not recall how I love her; it was just like a moment between two heartbeats, I saw her completely different from what I used to see her for years, just like a black hole that suck my dimly lighted heart into. I could not resist, but meekly allowing myself to go deep inside the blackness that possibly killed me.

An old man was once told me that we never really lived in the present; everything we saw is only the fraction of the milliseconds or maybe million years passed. When I stared at a light in the sky, it was the ancient constellation that perhaps is now dead. The same goes to love; when I saw  love in your eyes, it may be the fraction of the past.

I looked into her wet eyes; the tears slowly went down her cheeks like the stream in the spring day, released all the remaining frozen particles from the former winter. She is free.

The Veranda

"He have always been there for several hours”, said she. 

I walked feebly to the window, and stared at him. He was standing and leaning over the fence of the veranda, looking at nothing but the emptiness of the dark sky. He was a very calm young man at about 25 years old, looked tidy with a black coat. I sat on the window frame, took a gulp of the champagne; then I asked her, “Who is he? He looks happy over there.”

She glanced over the window and sighed, “He looks happy physically, but look into his eyes; he is psychologically sad, tortured by something—“

“How do you know about that?” I interrupted. “How can you be so sure of him? You do not even know him.”

She grinned, “I know him pretty well; I just know.” Then she sat on a chair in the middle of the room, smoldering a cigarette in between her two lips. She looked into my eyes and said, “I think you know him too; take a look at him.”

I was flustered, “No, I don’t”, I replied.

“Look at him!” She retorted.

“Okay.. Okay”, I meekly looked at him. Although I did not know him, he looked familiar to me as if I knew him well. It seemed that he reminisce me of something happened very long time ago. This room seemed like to have filled with a gray mist that blurred my vision and stung as I breathed as if something was pressing me. I felt uncomfortable.

“Have you got anything of him?” She startled me. 

“No”, I snarled; then I added, “How long am I going to be stuck in here? Let me out of here! I need to meet Patricia; she must be waiting for me by now.”

“You cannot. You know this game pretty well, and if you went out this room; you know that it will bring no good. Patricia will be fine as long as you behave well.” She snapped as she stubbed out her cigarette on the floor.

“What’s happening with her? If you ever touch her, I—“

“Shut up! Just look at the man on the veranda!” She screamed.

I smelt something fishy on her; how could she talk so harsh to me, I had just known her for a few days. She might be a cold-blooded criminal or fugitive. It was written all over her face, the evil inside her. I had to fight for my life and for my fiancée, Patricia, but it had to be well-planned. I would just pretend to meekly follow her game and by the time, she is the one who will play on my game. I turned my head over the man in the veranda once again and kept my eyes on him.

Nothing happened for the first 15 minutes, I almost fell asleep. But there came a young lady with a white blouse, I supposed she was the young man’s girlfriend, or his wife perhaps, for they wore the same rings on both of their ring finger .They was talking and laughing when suddenly the man’s countenance changed dramatically from a very gentle to be somewhat ghastly, his eyes bulk, his grimaced with a bloodthirsty look. In infatuation, he started punching the young lady on the face, and soon she lost her conscious. The man then took a knife, and started mutilating her; the blood splashed all over the veranda, the red viscous liquid that aroused me to some kind of paroxysms. 

“Hey! Call the police! Call the police!” I screamed at the top of my voice, but she kept sitting on the chair in the middle of the room, smiling as if she enjoyed every second of the torturing.

I took a wooden chair beside her and threw it on the window. The deafening sound of the broken glass must call the police, for they soon broke into the room.

“Freeze!” They warned, as pointing a gun.

“That man, sir, over there—“As I pointed into the veranda, there was nothing, the man, the blood splash, or anything.

I was perplexed at how that might possibly happen. I frantically stammered, “It must be some kind of black magic. There was a murder just now.” Then I glanced at the women sitting on the middle of the room; and then I muttered, “It’s her. She must be involved in that murder!”

Then my mother came after me with a bow head and tears wetting both of her cheeks. She hugged me, and whispered, “It is all over son, surrender to them.”

“What are you saying, mom? And where is Patricia?” I asked my mother hoarsely.

My mother sobbed “She’s gone, son. Mutilated right in that veranda four days ago.”

-- The End--