Me And Why

 

“Why you chose to write poetry? It is already hard to earn your place in writing world, let alone a poetry.”

“Why you prefer to exist behind the curtain? Why don’t you like to be on spotlight?”

“Why you prefer to be silent? Why you don’t want to talk?”

… and too many other ‘why’ questions.

The word ‘why’ is perhaps one the most offensive words to me, and at the same time it happens to be the most stimulating word, too. When my reason of action and/or my statement is being questioned, that dislike nauseatic feeling starts to creep me in. Immediately I would feel as if I am being judged, being doubted; as if somebody would point out my flaws; as if I am not good enough; as if I am not perfect, although deep inside me I know how much imperfect I am. And when the word ‘why’ becomes too many, that my one simple explanation is not good enough, I would reach the point where I get suffocated and burst myself into silence. When silence can’t escape me, I would have to excuse myself to leave the conversation and let my eyes pour their rain. Sometimes, rage, which is the opposite of silence, could happen when I am being pushed with too many ‘why’, and I never like the version of me whenever I am on rage.

I am one of those who choose to let people be the way they want to, do anything they want to. To some, my choice not to get involve is being considered as an ignorant, while I take it as ‘trying my best to understand the diversity, that each person is different’. Perhaps having able to grow up in an environment which require tolerance in every aspect of life has made me become a flexible person. Although I had couple of people told me that it is in my element too, that I was born as a Pisces which said to have the ability to understand, to not judged easily, to tolerate, but not many people believe in sign/zodiac, so I would rather choose the environment I was grown up at to be the key of my understanding trait.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mean to say that I don’t get interest in others. But I avoid being aggressive. And because of this, I am being considered as a passive person, someone who won’t initiate and who follows the flow.

Perhaps it’s true. As I choose not to be aggressive, so of course I am being put into the box that has a label ‘passive‘. It is a common sense.

I was questioned once of why would I prefer to be labeled as one, I remember I said I didn’t choose the label passive  it’s other(s) who have labeled me. And it’s true, I don’t put myself into any label nor box, this is just the way I prefer. I don’t like to put others into situation where they would feel awkward from my ‘why’ questions. I don’t like to make them think that their choices are wrong, and worst I don’t want them to feel as if they are a mistake.

It might sound lovely that I prefer to listen and to understand others more, but undeniable, it has put me into dilemma, of whether I shall continue my preference, or be a little bit more aggressive, as it is a necessary trait too. The stimulation that I get from the question ‘why’ doesn’t help the dilemma either, as this particular word does ignite my brain to think of smart(est) explanation that I could give. But then I would put myself into the situation of how unpleasant it is to have ourselves to explain every single step that we take, every single action that we do, every single thing that we prefer to do; how exhausting it is to explain what we would want to become; how unfair it is to explain our existence.

-L-

 

 

 

 

Nothing Is Really Gone

17th February 2017, under flowing tears of the Desert Island sky, I write.

“Nothing is really gone,
nobody is actually vanish,
as memory of them lingers…

The scent of them is around us,
all the time.
They have become the air that we breathe.

Everywhere we go,
the scent caughts our mind,
and we let our heart to inhale it,
deeply…

Until our soul forces us to let it go.

To let go the pain,
to let go the sadness.

Until we finally would smile again,
until we could breathe again.

Yet,
we would breathe the same scent,
all over again.

Until everything ends,
until our life ends.”
(Lan)

I Am A Horrible Friend

Friend. At the age of 36, I still wonder what does this word mean.

Friend could become multiple, which we all known as ‘friends’, and from there we have specific categories, such as; good friends, best friends, best friends forever, family friends, friend’s friends, and perhaps few more categories. And by the passage of time, I have categorised myself into ‘Horrible Friend’.

No, I am not exaggerating it.

I have never been without one. In fact, I had always surrounded not only one, but many. Started at early age. I was never an anti-social kind of person. I had mingled with the nerds, the rebellious, the simplest, the ‘famous’ kind of kids. Somewhere in last ten years, I once had Facebook account (which now I have forgotten what the password is), that I dedicated only for friends and I had over 1000 friends in it in which I knew every single of them in real life and they knew me as well (Don’t forget that we have online life, too!). And I just didn’t know them by name only, but their parts life, too.

So what has happened? Have I become selfish? I am sure some people who know me from ages, would agree with that word, the selfish word.

I heard that time has made everyone to change. Time has matured everyone. Perhaps.

As in my case, time has led me to my passion, writing. I don’t chase my passion, I want it to become the life that I want to live, but sadly that has become the foundation of me in making myself becoming ‘a horrible friend’. Perhaps to most of people who know me, I have become obsessed with my passion, that they thought I have shifted my attention from they to I. I have made ‘I’ more important than ‘Them”, and when the topic wouldn’t be about writing, I would be quiet as if I have lost interest in the conversation.

I am not trying to praise myself, but I knew I was a very flexible person, a great listener. Because of that I was known as an easy going, understanding, and helpful kind of person. I was one of those friends that would give without asking anything in return, and would tried my best not to ask for help until the situation would become desperate enough that I couldn’t do anything, except to ask somebody for a help.

Have I turned to worst? And if I have, what could be the cause(s)? Has my passion become the culprit? As because of it, I have become someone who is not ‘that flexible’ anymore. But when I found silence instead of support in between my passion, I knew I had to re-learn the meaning of ‘friend’. When I could listen and understand their life stories and they turned their head away from my passion, I knew I never actually understand the meaning of ‘friend’.

I have always a self-taught kind of person and prefer to learn everything silently.

At the moment, silently I am teaching ‘friendship’ to myself through experiences and reflections. I an teaching myself to be alright with the concept that “I” matter. Somehow, this learning time has turned me into a silence itself. And perhaps because of that, I have become a horrible friend to many.

-L-

A Poet

 

“You might be known as the fool one,

the one who dwells soul into pain, sorrows, and despairs.
All kind of sadness emotions.

You might be the one whom they refer to as a lunatic, a loner, a weirdo.
All kind of pathetic roles.

But they forget,
you are a magician.

For you to be able to dissolve all expired moments and feelings,
into something that has got longer time,
much longer time than an expiry.
Something like…
… an eternity.

You could turn expired moments and feelings,
into an everlasting memoirs.

And there is nothing sad about it.
Rather it is,
in my humble opinion,
is…
a magic.”

(Lan)

 

I Do Not Share Anymore

Struggled. Struggling, still.

Struggle is part of life, or I could put it this way that for some of us, we struggle to live.

I used to share about my life’s struggle to others’ ears, but nowadays I don’t. Not that I have become an anti-social since I prefer to write more than to talk, but if I could be honest, I have become exhausted to share it with others.

Sharing is caring, haven’t we all heard about it before? We teach this phrase to our children, with an intention that they understand the depth behind it, but do we actually understand it ourselves? Or is it valid to ‘things’ only? Is vulnerability not included?

It is sad that ‘caring’ has become an understatement kind of thing.

We all are busy leading our 24/7, it could be overwhelming to put other’s 24/7 in between our hours. We have ears to hear, but not to listen.

Listening requires time, and time is all that we claim we don’t have. And for some of us, we choose to take shortcut, and mask can become the tool for it. Some people wear it perfectly that we have become unaware of it and we have smitten by their mask. But when we finally acknowledge it, we would label them as fake.

Ironically, when we tell them how fake they are and pretending to care, they would fire it back by saying, ‘We take out time for you!’.

Time. A friend and a foe. For sure, it is time that we often put as culprit.

And time has become the measurement of how caring we are to others. It is something like, ‘I can sit here hearing your story for next half an hour because I am free, but make sure make it will be fast because I have wotk to finish.’ Or sometimes it may sound like, ‘I have been listening to you all day and you say I don’t care? I could have done other things than having to listen to your sad story!’

Do they actually listen? Do they actually care? Do I matter?

Endless questions, with no exact answers. But one thing is for sure, that time is now a measurement of caring. Understanding, sympathy, empathy, are no longer important. In this fast life-era, those are the measurement of caring.

But from where we could find this understanding element when everybody’s experience is different from ours? How could we get the feeling of their desperation of travelling when we get to travel every quarter of the year? How could we understand their reasons to switch off the AC in hot summer season just for them to reduce electricity bill, when we live in a place where electricity is almost free? How could we understand anything that doesn’t happen to us? 

It’s strange, isn’t it?

Perhaps that is the reason why I feel exhausted of sharing my vulnerability to others.

Perhaps it is the thing that we must not share with others.

-L-

I Take Life For Granted

“Stand in the balcony overlook the sea views from both sides, perhaps would make you feel that you must visit balcony everyday. The scenery of both sunrise and sunset, would definitely gives you energy of life.

But in reality, I don’t visit my balcony everyday. I should, shouldn’t I?

Every time I pass by these giant windows of my sitting area, I know I would see nothing ‘but beauty. A natural beauty that no words could ever describe it perfectly.

When the night arrives, all the light that comes from the houses and buildings give a look as if you’re on the plane high up and overlooking a beautiful night view of a city.

But a human will take everything for granted, will take everyone for granted.

In the back of my mind I say to myself, I stay here, I will see it again tomorrow. It doesn’t occur to me ‘What if I will never have a tomorrow?’.

Human being is arrogant, and I am very much a human being, arrogant and take thing and people for granted.

Just like the way I don’t visit the scenery everyday, just like the way I don’t think that there is no tomorrow, just like the way I forget how important the air that I breathe, just like the way I take myself for granted.”

-L-

The Room

The room has grown cold.

Everything in it, still is the same, still in placed. The colour lavender, my favorite, mixed well with grey, his least of favorite colour.

I remembered how we fought over what colour to be put as theme of our room. He insisted to be black, and I sarcastically replied, “Nobody died in this room! And neither both of us are gothic!”. Then he replied me to have it themed on light black, which I responded with laughter. He looked at me, a little upset expression. He never liked me to laugh at him. I hugged him immediately, and told him how silly he was as there’s no colour such as light black.
Still hugging each other, he said, “How unfair it is, darling, for black not to have dark or light. White got broken white, but nothing as such broken black. How unfair! And look at your colour, there are versions of dark purple, light purple, lavender, fuchsia, violet, amethyst, and God knows how many more of purple out there!”. I smiled to your complaint, then said, “Black is a colour, darling. It doesn’t matter to me that it doesn’t have the dark and light versionof it, what matter to me is, it’s your colour, and you are the most colourful person I have ever met, and ever loved.”
He then kissed me. The unfinished room was warm for the first time.
Fifteen years have passed since then.
There have been many stories shared in this room, included how we finally painted grey as he didn’t want to compete with our gothic teenager twins.
The room was painted dark for many years. But I never felt as cold as how I feel now towards this room.
My eyes catch the present of his study table, which is placed right in the centre of our room. Right in front of the bed. The oak wood of the table gives an earthy look, the kind of style he liked, combined with black leather chair. I see his pen was still lying there, which has his name written on it. I remember he got the pen from our Chinese friend who didn’t like his idea of putting this table right in the centre of the room. She said it would bring us bad luck. I immediately looked at his expression and knew exactly what he was thinking. He looked at her as if she was speaking Chinese, didn’t understand a word about it, and he never moved the table.
I asked him once, why in the centre, darling? He said, “So my love, when I write my talks, thesis, speeches, I can see you lying down sleeping in front of me. And that scenery of yours, would add peace into the chaotic mind of mine”.
And I never asked him twice.
I almost forget that I have been holding a bouquet of black roses on my hand. I’m supposed to place them in the vase on his table.
He liked plants, green ones like bamboo. But I started buying him black roses ever since we were dating. He fell in love with it immediately. He then started to put them here in our room on his table and on his desk at his office. For the same gesture, he started buying me purple roses too, the dark purple ones, the dramatic ones. And the day when our room was ready, I started to place them on my dressing table. They always made me felt pretty, not only the colour is gorgeous but the note he always wrote, without failure, every single time, “You are my purple, I lavender you very much.”.
I don’t realise my tears are rolling down. How I miss this room with him inside it.
This pretty room is broken, so am I.
I walk towards the windows. They are on his side, the left side of where I sleep. I see the sunlight embracing the room, but sadly it is not his light. That’s why perhaps, I don’t feel any warmth out of it.
My left eye catches a glimpse of his coat hanger, placed right in the corner. His dark blue coat is still hanging there. I touch it, and bring it to my nose, to scent him. Arabian oud, his scent.
I feel tired suddenly. Just want to throw away the whole sadness I have in me. I sit down on our bed that grown colder, no matter how warm the blanket is, he has gone. He left this room, the sanctuary place of ours, forever.
As I whisper to myself, “Look what it has become without you, darling!”. It is more like obituary room than a bedroom, so cold, that I could feel its coldness freeze my heart and my mind.
Everything in this room is in light colours, but I don’t feel the lightness anymore. On the contrary, it used to be in dark colour, but all I felt was warmth, light, and happiness.
Perhaps our Chinese friend was right. Study table in the centre of the room could bring us bad luck. As it feels terribly bad without him here with me.

But I wouldn’t move it, not because it doesn’t matter anymore as he has gone forever and couldn’t ever come back, but I would want to keep having the image of him, sitting on the chair, writing in our room. But from now on, it wouldn’t him who look at me anymore, in fact it would be me who would stare at his image through the broken heart of mine. With a broken hope that perhaps this room would have its warmth again, perhaps it could be more than just a room, perhaps it could be our sanctuary, again.

-Lan-

Alone, But Not Lonely

Ernest Hemingway said that writing at its best, is a lonely life.

“Lonely. A scary word it could be. We would try to avoid feeling it. But how we often forget, that ‘lonely’ might be quite the word that fits the description of our six feet under.

Lonely. A word which I don’t relate towards negativity, for I relate it to solitude.
I would be alone, by myself, but I wouldn’t feel lonely. When I shared this to others, they said ‘Ah, you don’t feel lonely because you have got world on your hands which is the mobile and wifi. Or you would have great songs on your ears, or books. Nobody would certainly feel lonely that way’. I find it funny of how some people feel delighted to criticise others right away without even thinking of what we might feel. I could say that I am kind of numb when I find people criticise me. I usually just smile.
But answer to that ctiticism is no, wifi on mobile, or great playlist on my ears, or book, is not the reason why I don’t feel lonely when I am alone. It is also not because in my most alone time, I would be spotted at coffee shops that are filled with people talking with each others. But it is because being alone is where I am at best version of myself. The version in which I do not have to pretend.

I do get to hear people say, ‘Wherever you are, be yourself. Whoever you are with, be yourself’. I wouldn’t say that it’s not true, rather that’s how we shall live our life. But, reality often says the opposite, because reality is like a play, in which we all are actors playing different roles, showing different expressions although they might not match our true emotions.
And to me, lonely is far from reality. Lonely is the only feeling in which I don’t feel lonely, at all. Sometimes I don’t have any screen with me when I am by myself, no book either.

But there is one thing that I can’t deny, and that is I would have my ink spilled when I am alone. And I can’t deny it too, that I write at my best when I am lonely.”

-L-