kemampuan berkabung

Ia tidak mengerti apa arti air matanya itu. Ia berpikir berkali-kali dan tetap jawaban itu tidak muncul di dalam benaknya. Karena sebutir air mata dari jiwa yang bergentayangan untuk 20 tahun tidak mungkin mempunyai kekuatan untuk memutar-balikan waktu, jadi sebenernya mengapa ia menangis?

Apa yang tidak ia ketahui adalah walaupun air matanya tidak bisa membenarkan apa yang sudah terjadi padanya, air mata tersebut yang sekarang sudah mengering di kulit pipinya yang kasar memperlihatkan bahwa setidaknya walaupun ia tidak pernah dilahirkan, jika ia dilahirkan, ia mampu menjadi manusia yang bisa berkabung. Dan itu adalah alasan yang cukup.

2013(c) Victoria Rahardjo 

if this is not the truth, then there is no honesty in this world. : therapeutical writing pt 2

your fingers were innocent. at least i know that. at least i’m grateful that you have the courtesy of telling me that. if only you knew just how much it means to have held your hands, to be able to have a taste of what those fingers feel like reaching the insides of my wrist… i wondered if you will still say the words that you said. the words that as of now couldn’t be taken back anymore. it has been 2 months now since that night when my brain which was the only functioning part of my alcohol-induced body scolded me; when my fingers intertwined with yours like a zipper that unzipped too soon. it said: “remember this. you might never again feel this. you might never again find this to be true. you might never again hold hands with him.” ; and i wondered why i forgave you so easily when you have so blatantly undermined me with your remarks, and of the expressions of my heart for you. maybe it was because of that. maybe because we held hands that made it all the more worthwhile to get hurt. i want to move on, but at the same time it was as if some parts of me are still on the same spot. latched. not wanting to move on because all the things that might have been kept on flashing when i close my eyes. all the nice things that a jerk like you would do, and even all the things that you might again say to hurt me. i strangely anticipated it.

this is the truth. this is the most truthful that i can be with you. this is what my heart is telling the empty spaces that is this room when a girl is sitting alone writing in her journal of an afternoon sun that still shines. if this is not the truth, then there is no honesty in this world.

2013(c) Victoria Rahardjo 
please do not take without my consent.

therapeutical writing. spewing out words while listening to rock songs on repeat: coming to the realization that i am in actuality a very violent and selfish person.

i’m not going to think; i fell in love with you and i’m not going to think about it because you think with your brain and love is the heart’s confession. it has nothing to do with the brain. because when i fall in love, i can’t see whether the light is green or red; i can’t see if that person is my best friend’s girl; i can’t see where i’m going. all i hear is my heartbeat and it’s game over. i have no other options to take and no other decisions to make; just like that i’m running towards you, i’ll trip over a cat and get bitten by a dog and fall and bleed and get punched by my mother and starve and get stuck inside an elevator and get electrocuted and get hit by a truck but i’ll still go towards you because i can’t do anything else. like chasing after a dream and after all that, when i finally reach you, i’m going to fearlessly hold you and i’ll take you out on our first date in a noodle shop because i’m hungry from all that running and dying from trying to develop nine lives just to reach you; or was it a stolen nine lives because that cat that i tripped over never wakes up ever again. so come to me and hold me back, because i’m vulnerable but i’m still running towards you; “i’m going to make you love me” i told the world. a certain grandma told me on the streets that i’m out of my mind but for the life of me, i’m going to make you love me back. i’ll buy you lollipop rings and jump and cry and sing for you. i’m going to write you letters until my fingers blister and my hand shaking. they’re going to be written in cursive because that is how you like it and even though it is illegible and you can’t make any sense out of it, i’ll write it still and i’ll make sure you’re going to read it, word by word, letter by letter because at least that way you’re going to know that my head has been turned upside down and backwards. my dear, i’m going to take you to places you’ve never been before and i’m going to serenade you from sunset to sunrise and as payback you’re going to hold me when i intertwine my fingers with yours and kiss you because i’ll be vulnerable then and you’re going to close your eyes and understand just how much i’m willing to let go just to get you in exchange of everything and we would expose our jaw bones and our clavicles and the only sound that could be heard at that moment will be our teeth clashing with one another, but we both would not care; because at that moment we will die–we will die because it is then that we are the happiest and it is then that we can’t see if a gun is pointed at us, nor would we care if we both got pierced by a bullet that goes from my heart to your heart; you are beautiful and at that moment when i first saw you, my heart dropped. and when i decided to jaywalk into your life, no one can hold me back.

***

i’ve been doing a lot of these types of writings recently.

sitting behind my desk, my pen and notebook in front me and just write. without care and sometimes even without sense.

i’d plug my ears with my earphones and crank the volume up on my phone while listening to my current favorite rock song on repeat and i find that not giving myself time to even think what i want to write makes me a very honest writer. after five minutes straight of writing anything that pops into my head i feel a really strong sense of freedom. it is surprising how the truth speaks so much to me when i do not have to worry about grammar, or spelling mistakes, or punctuation mistakes or bad handwriting. it is amazing.

i just thought i’d share this with you. since it is baby blog’s third year anniversary, i thought i’d write about something personal. even though i haven’t been writing a lot, i’m pushing myself towards a new direction that i have been too scared to explore before. when i finally find out what’s going on out there, i’m going to vomit posts (and even write the uber belated christmas post)

happy birthday blog. and thank you wonderful readers for still taking the time to drop by. i love you too (:

“and even though they cannot love me forever, at least at this moment, i want to remind them why they once had loved snow.”

i woke up to the soft pitter-pattering fluttering footsteps out my window.

even before i opened my eyes, i know the snow fairies have came, small, but in troops, descending on earth.

i watched as i snuggled deeper into my covers… shivering. some of them came by and said hello through the blinds that i left open last night. i realized they come by different shapes and sizes.

six o’clock

seven o’clock

eight o’clock

nine o’clock

ten.

they keep on hurdling down in a speed so alarming they descended on a different angle, but descended still. sometimes more vertically, sometimes more diagonally, i wondered if the wind had hurt them. because you know, snow fairies aren’t supposed to stumble and fall. they’re supposed to glide and gleam and shine like swarovskis falling from the sky.

i got up and laid my palm on the window. with the mind of a little girl i looked up to the sky and knew that it would not stop soon. the ice queen was furious and angry. the little fleet of snow fairies that came days ago are now slushy and grey, defeated into sludge. i saw the cloudy gates wide open, and saw them in sprinklers charging towards the frozen grounds–meanwhile below, i heard the snow truck clearing away the freshly embedded troops from the streets, deliberately killing them.

the shrill, high pitched cry of the ice queen was unmistakable.

“humans.” she shook in fury, and with all that she can summon, she slowly disintegrated, creating more snow troops out of her own most noble and coldest flesh.

the little girl in my head… she was crying. i caressed the cold glass with the tip of my forefinger, as if trying to reach for snow, as if scared that they would melt because of my heat.

“something’s got to give.” the little girl in my head said.

the ice queen didn’t stop. with a maddening glare she looked at earth, her slender legs reduced to stumps.

“but if you always give, you will run out.”

her glare softens and in my mind, she looked at the little girl.

“i know.” she said, barely a whisper. “but don’t you see how white and beautiful it is when they are fresh?”

she teared, and that too became snowflakes.

“i have been shamed. the slush and the wet and the cold that got into peoples’ boots and heels and leather shoes… they are pieces of me dying and dead from the thousands of feet and car tyres. but don’t they remember when they were five and saw me for the very first time for what i was and smiled?”

silence. neither i, nor the little girl felt like it was our place to say anything at all.

“i’m going to die a thousand death.” she gestured towards the millions of her own self now insignificant bits of white ice. “and even though they cannot love me forever, at least at this moment, i want to remind them why they once had loved snow.”

2012(c) Victoria Rahardjo 
please do not take without my consent.

love isn’t just for a day

it was this morning when i checked the weather forecast that Viv talked to me.

go slow this time. she said. do not rush over things… do not jump into conclusions. do not assume anything. humans are dangerous creatures, she said. we are dangerous creatures. it is never clear what we want… we want everything. and even though we think we know what we want, our desires can change in a heartbeat.

feelings are arbitrary. she spoke. and they are intangible. if he’s an irregular noun with undetermined declensions, then you’ll never know where he falls in. you cannot always be the adjectival modifier that agrees to everything and everyone. that agrees to all conditions without fail. you’ll adjust and adjust up until a point where you can’t anymore and snap, like a rubber band that loses its internal spring.

you always thought that practice makes perfect. that getting hurt over and over again will make you accustomed to it. but you repeat the hurt over and over again, you’ll tattoo it into your skin. you’ll make it permanent.

so be careful this time.

do not fall for anyone you might not be able to have.

i feel so lonely after my friends are talking about past or potential future relationships. i love my friends, and relationships are nice… but just talking about it doesn’t seem to cross as something i would like to do. no. and i don’t care how pathetic that sounds, i just don’t. p.s. i will be waiting for you to hold my hand. whoever you are.

when i finally meet you, i’m going to hold your hands. just hold your hands….

i’m going to show you the rivers on my palms, the nails that are chipped, and the calluses that form from a summer job three years ago. i’m going to show you the valley of the in betweens, where your fingers are latched to mine, and mine to yours. a place so private, i’ve never let anyone in before.

because when i finally meet you, i’m going to let my fingers tell you a story…. of the little cat that was stuck on a tree, and of the little boy that scratched his palm on the tree bark. of the invention of an eco-bottle, and of a frustrated idiot who accidentally sliced his middle finger with a knife trying to make a hole for the little fish that is gasping for air. of a paper cut from a bunch of warm white crisp papers out of the printer for an immunology thesis. i’d tell you everything.

my hands aren’t the prettiest hands. the lumps and bumps are staying, the calluses more so. but these hands will build you a house, and feed you. it will dry your tears. it will curl up into fists and fight for you. we’ll be like this, hand in hand when you see your first snow and say that they look like pixie dusts, and even when the wind comes knocking at my knuckles, i swear i won’t let go… for as long as you’ll have me.

and i will do just that because it is my way of making a promise, that even though it is just for a moment, you will never have to face the world alone.

2012(c) Victoria Rahardjo 
please do not take without my consent.

lights

i was in my boxers and nothing else, sitting in front of the glass wall of my apartment that was slightly foggy because of the AC.

i was debating on whether or not i should scratch my armpit, but instead diverted my thoughts to the mug of searing hot Americano sans sucre that was blowing puffs of scented smoke. it was 3 AM… and the twinkling lights of New York was absolutely beautiful. you can almost mistake them for millions of fireflies sewn together by their wings to form a giant tapestry, lain on top of the Big Apple. i cringed. i don’t even like fireflies. but one cannot mistake beauty for what it was.

on the twenty-third floor, everything seemed fine. a deceiving slumber of the city that never sleeps.

on the twenty-third floor, all i know is people are leaving their lights on outside, having a dreamless sleep if they’re lucky.

on the twenty-third floor, i saw just the shadow of New York. the shadow that glitters in the night.

because as a boy, i knew better. as a boy, exactly seven years ago on this day, i was living in the slums, and my mother died. it was 3 AM.

and the lights of New York, they are nothing but the comrades of my one single lightbulb, that was on that day, grappling on every flickers–desperate to be seen by someone on a particular apartment on the twenty-third floor. because then, i didn’t see my flickering lightbulb. all i saw was mom, dying a quiet death. a quiet, painful death.

crouched under her, i saw her eyes, slowly ridding themselves of the life that she could no longer live, and her lips which were sandwiched between her teeth, determined not to let me hear her scream. he on the other hand, was reeking alcohol. mere anger, booze money that wasn’t given, and a second later, she died at the hands of the man that has sworn to love her in sickness and in health, till death do us part.

oh he was with her when she died alright…

it took me a moment for me to realize that i was sweating. even in an air conditioned room, brine pooled at my brows. there was still no sign of the dawn that will surely break, but i already had enough of this. once a year, i convinced myself. just once a year. i ravished my Americano in three angry gulps and shut the blinds.

ducking my head under the comforter, i found that silence has already suffocated me before i had the chance to close my eyes. for seven years ago, when my mother died biting her lips, the lightbulb outside flickered to an end. and all i could see was mother’s fresh blood pooling at my side, and darkness and silence… apart from the single firefly that lazily sat on her dead left ear.

2012(c) Victoria Rahardjo 
please do not take without my consent.

mom, who was an art student, will always be my biggest critic. always.

and for that, despite everything, i’m forever grateful.

Separated

Disclaimer: The Avatar series is not my property. It is owned by Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko. The only thing that I claim to be mine is the story.

A single tear dropped to the dry parchment that was held limply in his hand. A tear that betrayed a stiff posture and stoic face of a man. His golden eyes reflecting the shadow of a boy who had grown too fast.

Crouched and obscured behind bushes and thistles was a Fire Lord sitting cross legged. His back was hunched, a little more than what his court or his people might be used to see. He abandoned his attempts at appearing strong, for aside from the family of turtleducks that swam in the pond, indifferent to his presence, he had no other spectators. No one to judge him. No expectations. He diverted his gaze back to the parchment he was still holding carefully, re-reading scribbles that was too familiar despite of time. Has it really been six years?

Dear Zuko, 

Five years ago, I gave birth to my son. Our son. He was the most beautiful creature I have ever laid eyes on. 

He took one deep ragged breath. A son. He let the words sink in. If only anyone was to sneak up on him, they would see their Fire Lord tremble in anguish at the hurt he was forced to suppress. For all his life he never knew what it meant to give in to his pain. His father scarred him for being weak, and now he must hold on to his sanity still, for the sake of his people. Always for the sake of his people.

He is the subject of talk right after his first wails penetrated the birthing chambers. I hope I could say that he is more like me, but I couldn’t. He is the spitting image of you, Zuko, and for that, he would never truly find a place he can call home. Not here, not there. 

His face was devoid of all emotions as he recalled the day when he told his court he was going to marry her. A Water Tribe peasant. How all of them showed an expression of utter horror and disbelief, for once forgetting that they might disrespect their Fire Lord by doing so, by questioning his motives. He could only imagine now their reactions if they knew he had a bastard of a son living at the South Pole. He grimaced at the thought.

His skin isn’t as pale as yours, but his eyes are of a gold shade and his hair is inky black. From the start, he weighed a lot less compared to other Water Tribe babies, and has grown to be a skinnier toddler than his chubby cousin. Even from now, I knew he inherited your agility. He will pick a stick and pretend that it’s a sword. If that’s not enough, he started fire bending a month ago. His emotions are also just as complex as yours… there are times when I don’t understand him at all. It was as if he is more your child than mine. 

A fire bender, he mused. Just what will the people of the Water Tribe think? A memory flashed in his mind of the day that he had watched a ship went farther and farther into the horizon, of the crystal blue eyes that held his gaze as they slowly disappear–of the day where he stayed on the docks until twilight, realization finally hitting him that he had just let go of the only woman he was capable of loving with all of his heart. And all of that was because she has insisted that she wanted a different life for the child that she was carrying in her womb. For a baby that will always be a child of both worlds. Zuko found humor in the fact that Katara had brought with her a fire bender to the South Poles.

When he started asking for you, I didn’t know what to say. He asked why you weren’t here and tucking him into bed like Uncle Sokka did to his cousin. La knows how many lies I have told that boy. Because of that, he grew to be more mature than other boys his age, and that saddens me. But I’ve always told him that you love him, because even when you forget, Zuko, I’ve always known and remembered that you’re capable of love. Always. 

He valiantly swallowed the lump that formed in his throat like tumor. A second tear rolled down his cheek and settled on his chin, not quite ready to drop to the ground.

I know I promised to write to you, and I’m sorry that it took me so long to do so. I simply wasn’t ready, and I didn’t want to make it harder on you to fulfill your promise that I know you will uphold. 

The promise. How can he ever forget? He loved selfishly, and will always do so until the day he blew his last breath. It was as if it wasn’t hard enough for him to let her go, she had made him swore to her that he would try to love another as much as he had loved her. He chuckled bitterly. She was reminding him to uphold his part of the promise, the little wench.

And in return, I will also fulfill my promise. You will never be a stranger to him. The child will grow to always know his father even though he would never see him.

Take care. Send my love to Mai. 

Our love, 

Katara and Akko. 

Akko. The name of his son reverberated in the hollows of his brain that refused to digest all of the information despite having read it twice. He was beginning to accept the fact that he would never get accustomed to any of this. He stared at the still pond that was not disturbed by even a single ripple. It reflected the full moon that was emanating a soft glow, bright enough to dimly illuminate his surroundings. The people of his nation acknowledged the fact that the moon borrowed its light from the sun. That without the sun, the moon will be unbeknownst to mankind in the first place… But what he have learnt, and learnt the hard way, was that without the moon, the sun will know no beauty. And life without beauty, is hardly a life at all.

He chuckled darkly. Here he was surrounded by all her elements; the water, the moon… and she was there, in the South Pole, raising a fire bender toddler.

A snap of a twig alerted him once more to his surrounding. With a speed that only a seasoned warrior would possess, he went to a fighting stance. But he soon lowered his fist when he saw that it was only Iroh behind him.

“Uncle…” he said, bowing a little in respect towards him.

“Azula is no longer around, Zuko.” he said, a smile in his eyes.

“There’s nothing wrong with being cautious.” Zuko defended himself, sitting back down cross legged. Iroh joined him.

“But it seemed like you weren’t cautious enough. I have been standing there for the past fifteen minutes.”

Zuko couldn’t contain the scowl that flitted across his face, and Iroh chuckled. The scowl had been a habit that was established when they were still running around the world, chasing the Avatar. As they say, old habits die hard.

“It seems like your first born inherited more of the Blue Spirit than what was intended.”

His first born. Even Iroh acknowledged Akko as his true first born. He could do nothing but nod and stare back at the parchment he was still holding delicately in his hand, scared that the brittle piece would crumble into ash if he held it too tightly. That he would lose the only proof he had of their existence as he had once lost the love of his life.

“You miss her.” Iroh said, a touch of sadness in his wisdom voice.

“More than I dared hope.” Zuko said, tracing every line Katara had inked onto the parchment with the caress of a lover. The emotion that he displayed at that moment was so raw, so naked, that Iroh even had the decency to look away. It was the look of a sparrow who lost his mate.

“You know…” Zuko said slowly, still tracing the scribbles that Katara had penned down. “my father never did once told me that he loves me. I guess that’s because he didn’t, or maybe because he couldn’t. I was too weak to be his first born.”

“Zuko…” Iroh said, and his tone hinted Zuko to the words of console his uncle was about to give him.

“And I will never be able to say it to him either.” Zuko interrupted him, casting his eyes to the ground. “My true first born will never know that I love him.”

“Katara said she will tell the child.” Iroh reasoned with him.

“Katara can only do so much, uncle.” Zuko said, now looking at the full moon. “She will only be able to tell him, and for as long as he shall live, he will never hear the confirmation of it. I will never be there to really say it to my son… that I love him.”

For a moment there, all the air from his lungs were forced out by Iroh’s rib cracking hug. But he relished in the burnt feeling of his throat, and the way it thirsted for air.

“You should not deny your emotions.” Iroh said after a while, sitting back to his former position. “She, and now the baby, will always be a part of you. Your child is a child of fire, and your blood runs through him, no matter how far apart you both are. But you have done what you should, Zuko. For your people, for your nation, and I cannot be prouder with you than I already am.”

His people. His nation. Zuko swallowed the bile that is slowly rising up his esophagus. What hadn’t he sacrificed for his people? His father burnt him because he displayed weakness in front of his people. His people jeered at him when all he had was a scar and the title of a banished prince. And even after the war was over, his people were the ones that had separated him from… from water. And now he was left dehydrated, never really going to be able to quench his thirst. What hadn’t he sacrificed for this Agni forsaken nation?

“It is time. Let’s go back.” Iroh motioned towards the palace.

Zuko nodded and steeled himself. His eyes, which were his only features that betrayed him of his hurt were no longer a molten mass of golden liquid. They were stony, and cold, and powerful, like how a Fire Lord’s should be. Like pure gold. He stood up and was able to pull off his mask of indifference effortlessly through years of practice. He squared his shoulder and stride back to the palace, his secret parchment carefully folded and stashed in the pocket of his tunic. Iroh followed suit.

In silence, Zuko trudged up the palace grounds and back to his chambers where a Fire Lady will lay on his bed, a newborn babe in her arms. Little did he know, Mai understood the gravity of his situation. Underneath every shrug, every graceful curtsy, and every bored expression, was another set of pain unheard of by anyone but herself. As she retreated from the window and back to the bed, cradling her three day old son, she knew that nothing has changed. Whether it was five years ago, or today, she would still only be a Fire Lady by title. A tear slid down her eyes and into the crook of her nose, but it was immediately brushed away by slender, pale fingers. No one would ever know of her struggles. Zuko will not know that she understood more than anyone else… that she loved him with everything she has, but that she will never be the wife of his heart.

2012(c) Victoria Rahardjo
please do not take without my consent. 

i was bored, so i wrote.

She was a little warrior

she wore her knives on her sleeves and even more so, her heart. but who cares? being weak was never an issue for her. after all the years that she swam in fear… of the times where fear was the only food she can afford, the only drink to quench her thirst, her only friend to see her cry, she embraced him. because the tears that came… they were razor blades. and the bruises that formed on her wrists, they were tokens of the fights she had gone through. in a world full of mannequins and lies, all she had were the knives sticking on her skin, digging on her flesh, the bruises that never appear to heal, and her saccharine smile that hid her rotting lips. because she knew her heart was muscle and not glass, and she was a girl of flesh and bone, and not porcelain. for every drop of tear she shed, her nimble fingers draw blood. and for the numbers of slashes her heart received, it will callus and persevere. with that knowledge she went, hand in hand with fear and sleepless nights, to the great unknown which was destiny.

***
2012(c) Victoria Rahardjo
please do not take without my consent.