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.