Trust Falls

I’ve always felt that my writing turns out the strongest when it’s sad. I guess for that reason, my fingers have stopped creating prose or poetry of any kind for the past few years.

It’s not that there had been no pebbles encountered throughout the not-long-past and still ongoing walk.
My feet stumbled upon many pebbles, but there was nothing that a good overnight cry and an emotion-stripping out-in-the-open kind of honest conversation couldn’t fix. Nothing that my fragile heart could not take in, that would’ve otherwise left me with no choice but to pour it out into words.

It’s ironically a good thing, isn’t it?
You thought you’d be hurt even more when you’re finally able to trust the entirety of your heart into someone else’s hands. Yet surprisingly, the hurt only lessened.

If it always goes in this manner, I would keep on trusting and keep on falling without any hesitation. Until it all feels like a loop of never-ending trust falls.

I could only hope that the pair of hands that had never failed to catch me yet so far, would carry on doing so. That the person to whom these two hands belong would stand there long enough to catch me again every single time.
So that when comes the time of my highest trust for the greatest fall, there would be no part of me that wonders in fear: “Would there still be anybody there to not let me be hurt in the fall? Or would my head hit the floor then bleed to death?”

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Brighter Than the Shaken Stars

Written as a coping mechanism for severe homesickness.

–

"The stars are beautiful," I thought.

I grabbed my phone and opened the camera.
"Click," the sound broke the silence of the night.

I looked at the photo I took only to realize that...
my hand was too shaky to make it a good shot.
I was shaking inside out,
because as beautiful as it gets here,
I'll always know something deep inside:
this isn't the view of the sky at home.

Even if it was the same sky,
the polluted air wouldn't let it be this clear.
No stars as bright as these,
but you know what would shine brighter?
I would.

Like these two stars I failed to capture
that they became nothing but blurry white lines
–of what use would beauty be
if nothing of the beholder could catch it?

This land is full of beauty,
but my soul was never made to catch this.
It is meant to catch the beauty of a place I call home.

(But then again, maybe it's me who's too attached to the idea of home.)

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The Glass I Did Not Break

Today, I broke a glass.

I was holding it in the grip of my hand

which I thought was firm,

until it slipped.

My mother heard the clash and scolded me,

pointing out how reckless I had been.

Yet in spite of her reproof,

she still told me not to make any move.

She ordered me to jump onto the nearest couch
as agile as possible,

without stepping on the floor;

because she was afraid that my feet would step on the pieces of broken glass,

sharp enough to make me bleed.

Later, she picked up the mess I made all by herself

while insisting that I should not even bother helping,

as it would involve the risk of danger and pain

—and she doesn't want me hurt,

at all.

At that moment, I knew.

I knew that you were the exact opposite of my mother.

Unlike her,

you were always prudent with your sweet words,

as if never disagreeing with anything that I do.

I thought it was because you loved everything that I did,

that you wouldn't mind

even if I dropped something off my hand,

like what I did with the broken glass. 

But it turned out that

you wanted to see me hurt.

You wouldn't care
if the pieces of shredded glass cut my soft skin

and let piles of blood burst out through the wound,

or if I don't have any shoulder to lean on from the mess I made.

But then again,

even if you had lent your shoulder,

I doubt that I would lay my head on it;

for you were the one who made the mess in me.

You didn't break my glass,

you broke my heart;

leaving me with its edgy shreds,

slivering me inside out. 

Bloody, now I am.

And as how hesitation is present
every time I take a glass now

and be very discreet when holding it,

so will I be when it comes to both

seizing and handing my very own heart. 

A promise, I have made to myself;

that I will guard what I have left

with all that I am.

I broke one glass already,

and it should not take more than that.

I will not let any other glass fall off my grip,

let alone something much more fragile than it:

my heart. 

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byvelvet Fall/Winter 2016: Mind Over Matter

Fall/Winter 2016 Collection on byvelvet.com

Filmed by Cindy Octaviany

Scripted by Livia Nathania

Video I — Intrusion

Narration:

Footsteps.

aligned with the melody of her thoughts. 

Burden.

Of the upcoming drudgery that awaits.

But there’s a touch

of the elegance within her.
Up she goes,

or in silence she sits,

seeking a clear state of mind.

The sight of her eyes,

the embrace of her hand

and the entirety of her presence;

all, a reflection.
Always making an effort,

stepping up, although tired.

Time running after her,

but she stands in hope

with a stare of confidence.

Mind over matter. 

Video II — Fraught Silence

Narration:

The sun still shines,

and the time still ticks,

and there she sits,

stirring the cup of tea in her hand;

while her mind,

still, pondering. 

A treasured spot

in a favorite place.
In a place where a thousand attempts

have been made,

and wishes set upon the invisible stars

but none of it could bring her

to the visionary paradise

she imagines. 

Disturbed.

Drops of tea wasted.
The tea,

uncontrollably, spills.

Shocked, she is.

The intrusion has consumed her, 

but where to escape?

Mind over matter.

Video III - Tranquility

Narration:

A door.

Leading her to a room of nothingness.

Walking through

an open space. 

The wind breezes,

erasing her doubts. 

Time keeps ticking.

She keeps thinking.

Clouds move,

raindrops fall,

water flows,

pages turn,

and leaves grow.

No track of task,

no track of time.

Her mind is cleared.

Finally free,

she is.

Tranquility,

she seizes.

Time, 

she cherishes.

All

of the worldly matters

withdrawn. 

Time is in her hold;

with peace,

alleviating her.

Every fold of her cloth

turned into swirls,

in a state of calmness,

like never before.

And so, she knows:

mind over matter.

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Rants of A Voluntary Sufferer

I'm sick of having not even one person left on this earth who would care enough to listen to my rants about how much sickness I am feeling; not of you, but of myself for being continuously deluded by your manipulative sweet talks.

I'm sick of this sickness as much as they are sick of my every word every time I make a sound;

for my every word is based on my every thought, and my every thought is processed in my mind,

of which its back is where my thoughts of you have lingered for as long as I could remember,

despite my attempts on washing you away from it.

You keep coming back.

I keep being quiet.

Everyone keeps asking what's wrong with me.

I say I'm fine, because I wouldn't bother to disturb anyone with my repetitive stories of you ever again; let alone let myself be slapped in the face by the advice of those who assume they know better about my emotional roller coasters better than I do—or do they really do?

They pointed out how you had been playing with my feelings,

how I had been blinded by love severe enough to not see it,

how I had been fooled to think that you were everything I had dreamed of;

when you were only treating me this way because you loved seeing me beaten down.

You loved seeing yourself win in the circles of what I thought were chances and hopes,

but turned out to be nothing but a game to play for you.

I didn't realize I was in a game,

because as how the characters in fictional games are;

I thought that the scripted plot of the story was my only reality.

I thought that your efforts to pull me back closer to you every time I take a step away were real,

only to find out later that you had done that because you knew.

You knew how satisfactory it would be for you to get me back near in your tightest grip of control, so that you would be able to suddenly let go of me just when I begin to think I am finally in the safest hands.

You revel in witnessing me falling far down below over and over again,

but not up to the point of hearing my fragile being hit the ground and shatter into pieces,

because the hole you dropped me into was the deepest that had ever existed.

You didn't know whether or not I hit the ground in the end,
let alone how much it hurt to fall.

All you knew was that I had a moment of flying before the fall,

and you thought I might have enjoyed that.

You thought you had given me the happiness of tasting freedom in boundless depths,

of which I also thought was the best thing that had happened all throughout history;

until I hit the ground and tasted the hurt, without you knowing any of it.

You're already too high up there with your bulging pride,

too far from the mess you had made out of me to be aware of what you had done.

I wish I could crawl up and pull you down here into the misery,

or at least get back up there to stab you and twist the knife;

as cruel as how you didn't only make a wound on my skin, but you rubbed salt upon it.

But if I had the chance to be with you again up there for one last time,

I know I wouldn't be able to do those things to you.

I would instead repeat my mistake of letting myself fall into your ambush again,

in spite of how you had been hurting me and how much likely it would endure.

I guess, being held in your strong grip for a brief moment was still unbeatable;

and I would redo it at the cost of anything.

Even if it means that I have to fall again,

and even if it takes getting hurt again.

Everybody keeps asking me why I still choose to fall into your trap again,

without you knowing that I had figured this all out.

You thought I was the easiest victim to deceive,

when I am just a voluntary sufferer.

I knew that all that you had given me was nothing but a trap; that you had caged me.

Yet here I am stating that I don't mind as long as you're the one who holds the key.

Even if they had warned me of the worst scenarios;

that what if you would purposely let my cage open as you throw it off into the dungeons of hungry lions to finish me off?

Because it seems like all these times, you had tried your best to make me die;

and you were repeatedly close to success.

But as you take pleasure in my pain,

you always decide to offer me a spark of life just when my feet are on the brink of the gate of death;

only in order for you to be able to replay the slow scene of my tears and the sounds of my screams.

But then again, why does it always have to be me?

Why don't you just kill me now and pick another pawn to prey upon?

It's not like you're humane enough to feel the guilt anyway.

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The Power Behind the Pain: Mount of Merapi

[This article is as seen as published on Kanekin online magazine]

Stepping on a land where thousands of history were made and getting to learn the stories by heart; those are the things that a true traveler should pursue other than mere eye-catching panorama or even photogenic spots.

Places contain stories, and so does the Mount of Merapi with its rocky roads; making it impossible for personal cars to access, but creating a greater work field for those who offer jeeps renting services scattered everywhere around the corner—one and another in just every few steps. When the jeep I hopped onto was making its way up to the top,

I recalled the moments of my first visit to this exact same site—back then when I was only a little girl being in fear of, yet astounded by how dangerous the mountain I was standing before could be; as smokes were blown out of its top, signaling that it could explode in anytime soon. But it was only years later that the eruption finally happened.

The jeep driver who was a local himself expressed his grief in words for the umpteenth time as he continuously does to the visitors he brings around; sharing his feelings about how painful it feels every time he sees the remains of houses being burned down into debris, living creatures into bones, and everything else into ashes—all because of the lava and hot volcanic clouds. Yet just as how he chose to step out of his agony and rather decided to embrace the beauty behind the stories by telling them to the foreigners, there's this one big-hearted family who crawled of whatever they have left; turning what used to be a home for them into a museum to display the remnants of the catastrophe. Broken television, scorched motorcycle engine, shattered plates, dusty coins from a moneybox, skeleton of pets—name it and there they have it. 

There was admittedly more power in the 2010 eruption than expected, that even the people who managed to get into the specially designed bunker did not survive. It was so strong that nature had to fight against nature itself; ending up with rivers and the flowing waters deformed into nothing but resemblance of pathways of sands and stones. 

While standing in front of the Mount of Merapi and observing every of its curve in awe, I was made aware that I had witnessed how excessive power created pain. Yet the locals who rose up again with bravery and courage to open the area as what is now referred to as the Mount Merapi National Park; reminded me that pain is never eternal and that unthinkable power could be produced out of pain once it has been overcome. 

A trip to Merapi is not only another travel experience, but rather a privilege of discovering lessons of life that should never be forgotten nor taken for granted. I am here to say that it is no longer a doubt that traveling opens the eyes of the heart to what is unseen yet. 

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Not A Fairytale

Princesses with long hairs and crowns on their heads,
wearing floor-touching nightgowns,
while being guarded in lavish mansions,
attending classic dance balls,
crossing paths with anticipated kings from certain kingdoms,
and ending up marrying one of them—
oh, the cliches of fairytales.

But if I was to believe in fairytales,
and the beauty in the stories;
if I was to avow my conviction toward the idea of a magic lamp
and the wishes it could fulfill;
I wouldn't ask to be a princess,
for I would rather be the evil queen.

The evil queen who hides under a black robe of insecurities, but seeks egoistical pleasures;
chases after an innocent heart, yet despises the power of true love;
building walls and destroying bridges as far as she could go—
because just like her,
if my happily ever after is never meant to deliver into my hands,
then nor should anyone else's be.

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The Ghost in Distance

Had I never pressed the playback button, I would never have to find myself crawling out of the pain caused by the absence of the figure I used to consume day and night—the pointy edges of your shoulders, the messy hair strands of yours, and the pair of lips that goes in accordance with the motion of your beautiful but piercing words.

Had I never laid a hand on the camera, I would never have to find myself digging through the memory scrapes of the pictures of you in my head—because although you were no longer the object of the photographs I take;

still, the fear of my eye capturing the constant shadow of your being keeps me looking back—for I miss the adrenaline rush of being in direct confrontation with what scares me the most, instead of just being haunted inside out but only from afar.

A treasured ghost to me, is what you are.

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Why Did You Ask?

Why did you ask me to explain everything in detail, when your mere presence already brings me into a state of loss for words?

Why did you ask me why I was acting weird, when your attentive stare is what makes me wonder how should I behave?

Why did you ask me if I was sleepy, when I would never want to close my eyes with you in my sight?

Why did you ask me to rest, when your shoulder is where I would lie my head onto?

Why did you ask me where I would go back to, when right by your side is the only place I feel at home?

Why did you ask me to sit next to you, when I would rather be in front of you to look right into your eyes and say all of these thoughts out loud?

Why did you ask me if there was anything you could do to help, when you're the reason for this helplessness I'm feeling—of not being able to control nor hinder myself from falling faster and deeper in love than I have ever been before?

Why did you ask me?

Why did you ask?

Why?

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It's A Who

They say only a fool would fall for you,
but I know I am not.

Because of all things—
every move you made I observed,
every step you took I followed,
every ally you had I approached,
every outfit you wore I remembered,
every place you hid in I discovered—
—with my entire ingenuity had I succeeded in performing all those,

but still I failed;
in bringing every piece of your heart into my world,
and escorting every piece of you into my arms.

If I was not a fool who fell for you, then what would that make me be?
A genius who deemed other worldly obstacles unchallenging, except for the idea of chasing after the impossible; what I knew was never meant for me and could never be in my possession?

Oh wait,
it's never a what.
It's a who.

It's you.

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The Theory of Gravity

Gravity is not responsible for people who are falling in love, they say.

If that is the case, then I should be floating in the air right now; not knowing how to stand on my feet and instead trying to grip onto something rigid that sticks to the unshakeable wall in order to find the balance between my physical body and the atmosphere—but in fact, the only thing that I wish to put into balance is nothing but my heart and my mind. 

If love is truly an exception where science does not work, then I do not know what kind of emotion this is; because as far as I am concerned, the force of gravity is pulling me down like never before. Each and every step I am about to take feels heavy with doubt and potential regret lingering in it—of whether I should listen to my heart to run after you, or stay hard-headed to keep my pair of feet planted in the ground while letting the sight of your back disappear as you walk away.

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Boundaries of Ego

If houses were created with no roofs, the beautifully patterned constellation of the stars in the dark night sky would be what our eyes would see before we close them and lay down to sleep.

If rooms were created with no walls, privacy would be no more than a hallucinatory fantasy that we would possibly risk higher stakes merely for the sake of detaining the deadly secrets we own to stay in ambush.

If lawns were created with no fences, warm talks in between shared afternoon tea time would be more common among neighbors instead of worrying about and envying how the grass might be greener on the other side.

If geometrical shapes were created with no borders, the art in abstractness would no longer be taken for granted but rather be understood as the sense of its familiarity would grow stronger.

If everything on this earth was created to be unified as one with no separating barriers;

if humans were created with no disputable distinctions of thoughts, values, beliefs, or any other different upbringing between one and another;

and if feelings were created to be felt with no restrictions;

you would be everything that my heart would've fallen for, my mind would've longed for, my hands would've held onto, my head would've leaned on, but not my life to sacrifice for—because I and my entire boundaries of ego would rather spend the rest of it together with you.

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Of An Ashtray

Because there is so much more of an ashtray than mere garbage for used cigarettes. The burden from holding another person's leftovers and the disgust from keeping all the dirt deep inside its soul, relates to me in one way or another. Always absorbing the dirtiest trashes of life with no one to cleanse the mess inside; is it like an ashtray how I am supposed to live?

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Blue

And if the color blue was created beautiful, then what makes being blue so sad?

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The Ocean

You are like the ocean

Your waves drag me deeper

Crashing me far into the middle

Where I begin to lose my grip

That I can no longer stand on my own feet

It is only when I start drowning

I realize that I'm tired of trying

To find a gap for me to breathe

In between your ebbs and flows

I swim against the current

Heading back to the shore

But I find myself

Stuck in your rip currents

Over and over again

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The Clearwater Well

You were drawing some clearwater from the well when you, by accident, scratched the formerly flawless palm of your hand to the craggy stone of its mouth, and you bled. You were so hurt that you dropped your bucket hard and spilled what you had collected earlier, leaving the bucket empty again, as it was in the first place. You fell to your knees with your tongue bitten by your own teeth, trying to control the pain you knew you couldn't contain. You, with a grimace on your face and tears dripping down your cheeks, looked so weak. You then froze, with your stare fixed at nothing but the air and your vocal cords voicing neither a scream nor a screech, though your eyes pleaded for help. You thought no one witnessed what calamity had struck you, but I did.

You pressed the other palm of your hand to your forehead, assuring yourself that what you came here for must be finished. You, all of a sudden, acted like you were as tough as a man made of steel. You, still in so much hurt, reckon yourself as unharmed as a surviving World War II soldier, perfectly armed. You got up on your own and walked back to where you were last, getting back to fighting for what you wanted to attain. You, now with a full bucket of fresh clearwater in the grip of your wounded but numb hand, stood straight on your feet, proud of how you rose from your downfall. You thought you were celebrating your victory by yourself, but you were not. You, in fact, were the one person I had always commemorated for, far inside the bushes I had been hiding in, only to be able to gaze at you, or to be precise, at the back of your shoulder. 

You, with an exuberant countenance I had never seen before, hopped alternately on one foot and the other, heading back home. 

You, with or without your triumph, had always been the one I would like to congratulate merely for being who you are, but never did, because I knew my utterance was despicable in contrast to what you were waiting for. You, roaming free, were the one whose steps I had always dreamed of walking by, but never did, because I knew yours would be used to run to what you had aimed high, far beyond what mine could go after. You, your head, and your heavy thinker mind were the ones I had always wanted to lend my shoulder for, but never did, because I knew you would not need mine to lean on. You were the one I had always been willing to share my final spare stock of drinkable water with, but never did, because I knew it would not be sufficient for your daily dose of need.

You, clearly, are destined to belong to that perilous but worthy clearwater well; that is not of mine.

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Drops: Blood or Water?

Drops of water for those in drought
And drops of blood of those who fought
Both powerful to put one into thought
Of doing a thing one was never taught

To throw away what one has brought
To finish a sentence, not with a dot
To let what is still alive rot
And to never worry about getting caught

Harsh is the world, yet do not be gnawed
Tempting it is to willfully miss a blindspot
But may we always give ourselves another shot

For a mendable pit in the heart does not make us a fraud

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A Love That Forbids

Either this is freedom or trust
This isn't something on my list of must
It's something as irritating as rust
And as unwanted as dust

I'd rather live under the power of rules
And to be limited only to my to-dos
Because as much as it turns my rainbows to blues
It still brings me closer to the clues

The clues of what it feels like to carry
An emotion so magical like a fairy
Which The Son received through Mother Mary
An overflowing love that forbids when necessary

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