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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