Pijak Sunyi

Rumah ini muram tapi meledak dalam tawa gelisah
Protes dan keluh kesah
Beriringan dengan suara air menerjang atap,
Tanah liat lemah
yang kering, lalu basah lagi.
Gelap. Seperti semua tanah,
gelap.


Biru pudar bernaung dibawahnya
Kata hujan,
"Jangan berpegang pada kata-kata."
Percayakah yang bernapas didalamnya?
Tidak.
Tanpa sadar dia menghirup dan menghembuskan
kata demi kata.
Meski tak semuanya nyata


Kalimat, frasa, kata
Pijakannya di setiap pagi
Di hari bernama Minggu
Pijakannya setiap waktu
Seperti angin pantai dan daun kelapa
Tak ada yang satu,
tak ada yang satu


Tombol-tombol hitam, nyeri.
Beban jemari
Bergunakah, aku. Aku, aku, aku
Kamu


Seribu detik berlalu, dan
Lenguhan pasir di ladang senja
berganti.
Merah sedelima
Sejuta kata membayang, seperti wayang
dibalik layar.


Tapi sunyi.
Melesak ke dalam rongga kosong
Di sini.


Rasanya bagai pasien di ruang dokter
Yang tak bisa menjelaskan di mana
atau bagaimana
sakitnya.
Hanya sakit.
Sangat sakit, dan sunyi.


Riuh kata. Dimana-mana
Langit ikut berdebat
Bipolar tapi anggun
Anggun dan bingung
Lagu siren yang melenakan.
Tapi di dalam, sunyi.


Sunyi melesak ke dalam rongga kosong,
memenuhinya dengan gema.
Di sini.
Di hati


Saat kata terbakar mereka tetap bermakna
Saat hati tersiksa mereka tetap percaya
Lebih dalam.
Lebih tragis, dalam sunyi.


Diatas kata-kata sunyi itulah
Dia berpijak.
Dia bernapas.
Dia belajar.


Yang indah tak harus bersuara
Tak harus megah dan berwarna
Tak harus sempurna


Landas pijakan tak harus kuat
Yang penting adalah,
bagaimana caranya,
dan bagaimana caramu berpijak.


c, b.e.w~
15 November 2013

"Promise"

And meet me there, bundles of flowers,

We wait through the hours of cold

Winter shall howl at the walls,

Tearing down doors of time.

Shelter as we go...

And promise me this:

You’ll wait for me only,

Scared of the lonely arms.

Surface, far below these words

And maybe, just maybe I’ll come home

Who am I, darling to you?

Who am I?

Gonna tell you stories of mine

Who am I?

Who am I, darling for you?

Who am I?

Gonna be a burden in time, lonely

Who am I, to you?

Who am I, darling for you?

Who am I?

Going to be a burden

Who am I, darling to you?

Who am I?

I come alone here

I come alone here

Promise

Ben Howard, 2011

Every Kingdom

#RelatableLyrics

Flowers don't know me like trees know wind and winds 

Blows a breeze one way to snow

The flowers around

They're all around

Underline

Clouds floating high above the sky
As it is so heavy
Sweeping the light, leaving thoughts empty
And I am both
Worn and weary, ail insanely

Copper dust
Flicking hoarse sound through the cutting
Blade under rust
And you are both
Mad and sorry, ceaselessly crushed

Would chase what is ahead and behind
Would run and deprive rue and sadness
Would climb and see the horizon
Erupt to a glory beyond compare

But we are nothing
Other than unworthy ruins

Ruins who are
Scared
Damaged
Defeated


~c, b.e.w
October 27th 2013

A Note, A Rant, A Life

Hating life is a constant reminder that you actually live your life....

In the worst state of living. And unfortunately I get that almost everyday because of people around me suddenly act like jerks and I kinda want to give them a square punch on the face or say something really offensive. Like call them bollocks or something.

The thing that I cannot understand is the part when I have to "understand everyone and everything in every situation and why in the world these things happen in the first place", which we know, in the simplest form in society's dictionary as "caring", while "everyone and everything in every situation" that needed to be understood can't be labelled understandable. AT ALL.

Case solved. The world demands you to understand and care and forgivable to others but be hard to yourself. Get that? Harm yourself, eat out your heart, take back your tears and feelings, wreck your brain, bury all your fears, be judgmental to your own feeling,  leave everything you love, tell lies that make people happy but hurt every pore of your sense, crack fake smile, pretend to like what everybody think cool, be someone you're not, dying to be the figure of perfection, because that's okay as long as people happy with that. 

That is what I got. My vision of the world after 15 almost 16  years breathing air and "living".

Like why do we have to care for those who do not bother to even think of what would hurt us and what wouldn't? Why do we have to keep our voices low while they scream, telling us we're not worth it? Why do we have to stop when they told us to stop? Why do we have to be so weak? So damaged?

Why. Do. We. Have. To. Care. So. Much

The nerve. Feels like I'm about to explode. When I read Stephen Chbosky's The Perks of Being A Wallflower, I almost believe.

I mean,

“So, I guess we are who we are for a lot of reasons. And maybe we'll never know most of them. But even if we don't have the power to choose where we come from, we can still choose where we go from there. We can still do things. And we can try to feel okay about them."  

- Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being A Wallflower

But almost, dude. So close but do not touch.

".. we can try to feel okay about them."

Try to feel okay. Not actually feel okay. Well done, Chbosky.
That is when something hit me. Try to feel okay is still better, and different than pretend to feel okay. Even if it's only the slightest, at least it's real. You give efforts to make them realer. And that is good. Better than loathing the past and live in your illusion.

Excellent, Chbosky.

I started to look up at him, after reading this part:

“It's much easier to not know things sometimes. Things change and friends leave. And life doesn't stop for anybody. I wanted to laugh. Or maybe get mad. Or maybe shrug at how strange everybody was, especially me. I think the idea is that every person has to live for his or her own life and than make the choice to share it with other people. You can't just sit there and put everybody's lives ahead of yours and think that counts as love. You just can't. You have to do things. I'm going to do what I want to do. I'm going to be who I really am. And I'm going to figure out what that is. And we could all sit around and wonder and feel bad about each other and blame a lot of people for what they did or didn't do or what they didn't know. I don't know. I guess there could always be someone to blame. It's just different. Maybe it's good to put things in perspective, but sometimes, I think that the only perspective is to really be there. Because it's okay to feel things. I was really there. And that was enough to make me feel infinite. I feel infinite.”

At that time, there is nothing, like literally nothing I wanted to do more than meeting Charlie, and stare straight to his eyes, then ask him: "How does feeling infinite felt like?"

I bet he would go for hours. Or even days. And I wouldn't mind. Because I like fairytales, and the story about feeling infinite is one for me. Something you want to believe, something you can see floating above you, but you could not reach it.

That alone is a treat. But I want to make it real.

I guess I like it better if I can tell someone in the future that I live my teenage years with freedom and infinity. Without thinking too much before saying something. Without going to the side everyone wanted me to go, instead of choosing my own path. Without being so driven. Without having the need to loathe myself. Without counting lies I tell in a day. Without insecurities. Without holding rage. Without hate and grudge. Without feeling so wrong and out of place.

Like Nick Carraway, I feel within and without.

I can't say that I like it that way or not. But the thing to be alive is experiencing something called "not sure" and "in between". So we can try to feel okay about them, like we can try to feel okay about the life itself, right?

Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther. . . . And then one fine morning—

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past. 

- The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald