Shame, in this time and age, free speech means the illiterate will orate.
They disguise blatant hate into chants of freedom, use taboo symbols to mark innocents, spit at whoever disagrees, kill whoever looks as white as oat milk (so much for free speech). And they will hate Sydney Sweeney for being a beautiful American girl with good jeans. And they will hate those who comment blue hearts on everything they see. And they will hate all things blue.
The man with the the Heart does not have the Legs. Or maybe he does but has chosen not to. The man with the Legs does not have the Brains. Or maybe he does but she could never allow herself to see it. The man with the Brains does not have the Heart. Or maybe he does and that’s only what he wants her to believe (she does not believe it).
All three men do not have the Spirit.
The woman with the Spirit has the Brains, the Heart, and the Legs; more of the Heart than the Brain or the Legs, but she has all of them nonetheless.
“What is my curse?” the woman asks the World.
“To love deeply where one cannot stay.”
“And my blessing?”
“To carry oceans of Grace in a world that thirsts.”
None of the three men will stay. And it will be much too late to wait for a man in Spirit who has everything. That’s what the World tells her. Her fingers tremble. She stares at the World blankly, her Heart ridiculously failing. They told her that if her Heart fails, she will survive on Brains and Legs alone. But the Brains and the Legs do not carry Grace. Only the Heart does. And her only blessing was Grace.
In grief, she falls to the ground. It seems that when the Heart fails, her Legs fail, too.
The woman with the Spirit lies on the ground, dead. The man with the Heart and the man with the Brains crouch around her. Both somber, both quiet and calculated. They whisper Prayers in a different Language. The man with the Legs is nowhere to be found.
The World looks at the scene. The World moves on.
They asked her why she was so good at marathons they didn’t know she called it running away they asked her how she trained her endurance she only smiled and laughed a little how could she not be good at it if most of her life was spent with gritted teeth and clenched fists sleeping soundly through nightmares and waking up with tears they asked her why she loved the sport they didn’t know it was the only thing she ever did
(This isn’t about marathons)
A text at 2AM sent to the lover: I wanted Dan’s Burgers. So that’s what we got for dinner after work. Simple old smash burgers, fries, and one vanilla milkshake. I wanted to check out a hiking backpack after, so we went to my favorite sports store (he was patient all in all). Bought some lemon water at a coffee shop; he grabbed a sticker for me because he knew I’d want something to do with it in my journal. In the end, I got a safari hat. / Luteal phase hormones were kicking in (I wanted the world to end). He held me as I went through the motions. We had Japanese curry rice for our next dinner and went shopping for some clothes for Islalila. I went to check out (but he promised to get them for me, so he did). We bought some oranges at the store right before they closed. I held his hand tight, not wanting to let go. / He always had matcha latte (no sugar, no ice) in the fridge waiting, to wake me up from my dreamless sleep. And was always gentle with my weekend oversleeping schedule. And a really long hug to start the day. / I never could understand what I did to deserve a love like that. But then I looked in the mirror and found the answer.
Bring two bags for performance day. Two costumes in. Props in. Two shoes in. Should I bring comfortable clothes to change to? Don’t forget the silicone pads. Extra band-aids for your feet, remember ballerinas also wrap their feet in strange things. Memorize your lines, say them out loud. Exude confidence. Makeup, makeup. Maybe I should bring a mirror of my own to the office. There is not enough time to order a large Clara-sized bow for my supposedly Nutcracker-themed attire. My heart is going to explode. Everything has to be very calculated. My partner must think I’m insane, visiting Decathlon many times in a month, two consecutive days in a week. But the possibilities are endless. My adventurous and sojourning heart is nourished. I cannot wait to purchase Blacky (Forclaz Travel 500 40L). Should I wear Forky or Blacky to Cambodia? Will the cabin crew be strict enough on cabin allowances? I need a box just for travel things – that small waist bag, compression socks, compression cubes, carabiners, hiking gears and the likes. What kind of shoes should I wear to Angkor Wat? Don’t forget to book buses and re-plan the hotels. I hope the eVisa for Georgia gets approved on Tuesday. I am turning 26 in a few days. I am not so excited about that. I haven’t finished the newsletter for work. People are counting on me. I need to take my meds before performance day. I cannot risk fainting on stage, that wouldn’t be funny. I had wanted both my parents and my partner to come see me. But sometimes I have to pick and I never choose. I tend to want everything I cannot have. It’s a little bit past midnight now. I have rehearsals at noon and the whole morning to prepare. I hunger for complex carbohydrates, the last of my luteal phase in full swing. I get distracted and inspect Decathlon websites to download their image assets, a small preparation on crafting the most comprehensive digital inventory I’m attempting. Do I need a clear case for my Macbook Air? Maybe what I need a case for is my fragile heart. The thought process is not processing. The connections aren’t blinking. The brain laughs at silly little me. I collapse at the thought.
“And not everyone will get it, not everyone will understand. That’s alright, no biggie. But the world really is so much bigger than the city you grew up in. The world really is so much more than your day job and numbers on a screen. And one day you’ll learn to believe it, too. Even if it means believing it at the ripe age of twenty-eight, or thirty-two, or fifty-five. Doesn’t matter. It’ll make sense someday and it will set your adventurous souls ablaze. On fire. Maybe you’ll still have time, maybe it won’t be too late. Or maybe you’ll be content in not ever seeing the world outside your box. I need to accept that life works differently for most people. Whatever works for you.”
There is a quiet hollow, a strange emptiness in the air. I know better than to expect your message on my phone; you would’ve been one to respect my decision. I sit up on the bed, shoulders slouching although they feel a little lighter. Didn’t you just tell me on this very same bed, that you loved me, last night? And didn’t I say them back, although I wanted you to disappear? I want you to be here but I want you gone. I want you to tell me nice nothings while I pack up my heart and leave. I realize I must have lost my mind. All of my plushies told me so. They told me I made a grave mistake. Deep down in my heart I knew the same. The Sunday routine happens like clockwork for a few hours, and then lunchtime hits. Everything I see reminds me of you. For the first time in many years, I made it to a wholesale grocery store I used to frequently visit when I was a teenager. That was the one thing I kept forgetting to tell you: I love doing grocery runs with you. It is to me the sweetest, most comforting thing to do with a partner, we could play house before the house presents itself. I had always wanted to take you here, and that other supermarket in North Jakarta. I don’t know why it never crossed my mind to do it in any other time than this. I saw a dispenser and thought of you. You never really got it at the end. I wonder if you still needed one. If I needed to get one for you. Would you have accepted my apology then? For not knowing better; that out of all of life’s annoyances, you were the constant, not the variable. Did you know minimarts had drive-thru lanes now? Such an odd and marvelous thing! I grab my phone to let you know—but stop myself. It hasn’t even been a day, and I have stories to tell you still. I want to know how your boring Sunday went. Did you watch Only Murders in the Building? What did you have for lunch? Are you working on a weekend? When are you going back to Jakarta? The Message app is still open on my MacBook, the last photo you sent me still downloading. I delete the last message I was about to send you a few days ago, but didn’t because you called first. The Deli Bakes released a nice lunchbox – one that I would’ve bought for myself because it looked so nostalgic yet so practical. I would’ve shared it to you on Instagram. I had enjoyed our last trip to Bandung and I didn’t tell you that enough. I wasn’t being myself and I hated it. And I hate myself for believing that you also hated me for it. I isolate myself, as usual, running and hiding and playing hide and seek. When all in all I just wanted to be found. Don’t you think it odd, the hopeless romantic spending time away from her lifelong lover? The most ridiculous logical fallacy ever told.
Friday mornings at your place takes me back to Sunday mornings at my childhood home. My parents’ bedroom door open. My father’s favorite perfume and the cold air slowly seeping out, bergamot and lavender particles filling the air, me being six years old in the shower, taking it all in. It was that specific moment and that specific sensory experience, nothing more and nothing less, that was etched in my brain until this very day. Your hug comforting like a father’s. My memory disoriented like a lover’s. My heart gentle and defeated. Like a daughter’s.
“If I lost all my memory, what is the first thing you would tell me about us?”
“You were born in Bandung. 1994. You had beautiful, loving parents who cherished your every being, and a sister, who is two years older than I am. Your parents left earth a little too early, your sister still misses them a lot even today. You picked Science in high school but pursued Management in university; you have best friends from uni you still hang out with every once in a while… Upon graduating you found a job in a wonderful company called Unilever. Your closest friendship circle, you found whilst working there. You don’t work there anymore.”
“I didn’t ask you to tell me about myself—”
“Your favorite color is green. You love older music, it calms you so. You like tofu and dark chocolate, and you always incorporate fruits in your diet. When choosing a meal, you need to order more than one variety of protein or veggies – or at least a supporting snack. Your favorite pastime is reading books, building Lego bricks, and assembling puzzle pieces. You appreciate music and you used to take piano classes. Your lover really wanted to see you play more, but you were always too shy. You love Harry Potter. You travel a lot with your friends and you document it on your Fujifilm camera. You never buy souvenirs for yourself because you only want to collect the moments and memories, preserved in photos and writings. You have a blog where you pour out all your travel thoughts—your girl, she loves it when you write, you were always so good with words.”
“But what does that have to do with—”
“You used to hate being vulnerable. You didn’t like feeling your emotions, you were always a thinker before anything else. That made you a little cruel sometimes. But then a worldwide pandemic happened four years ago and you stumbled upon a person shortly after, a mere colleague with bright eyes and big dreams. Just like you, she’s obsessed with Lego and Harry Potter too. She believed in magic so much, that, once, she told you that it was possible to build a whole-ass factory in a month. You thought she was either really reckless or hands-down crazy. She was just optimistic. Months passed and you left the company, but still remained friends with this silly little girl. Asked to meet her in person over coffee one day, and then everything started to make sense, but things were never easy. To make the love work both of you would have to defy all odds, and the odds were not in your favour. Against everything, you started falling in love with her after a year or more, even made sure to let her know. Over time, you were not afraid of stripping yourself bare in front of her; you allowed your heart to be vulnerable with the person you knew could hurt you the most. But little did you know, she was always so scared of losing you, you know? Life had always been a little weird to her. Sure, you made her cry sometimes but she still looks at you with the same bright eyes she had on her work profile photo, because she may believe in many things but she has always believed in you, she always believed in the idea of loving you until her very last breath, be it next to your grave or a million miles apart. To be loved is to be known. And you may have forgotten every single thing you have done, or experienced, in your thirty years of life. But the first thing that I will remind you of, is that she does know you, and she does love you, and if it takes her another three and a half years to make you fall in love with her, that she will do, a thousand times over, in every lifetime. Only then, will you remember how much you loved her, even if only for a fleeting second. It was truly love.”
“…”
“And I will always love you until my very last breath, be it next to your grave… or a million miles apart.”
If he were a room, it would be the living room with all of the cozy couches and cushions, in shades of mauve and moss, accents of rubies here and there—devil’s ivy in jars of water on the tables, unfinished puzzles on the rugs; monsteras lurking in every corner, a mirror ball in the center, bookcases lining up the walls with thousands of pages waiting to be devoured. cozy. comfortable.
If he were a routine, it would be the long, scalding hot shower, something to look forward to after an exhausting, ridiculous day job, a small window of time where dreams come alive and hope resurrects itself. If he were a scent, it would smell of fresh shave and leather, fougère, something between lavender and heaven.
If he were a house, it would be the house on a hook, grand and white, Italian and lovely.
If he were a home, he would be my home.
Empat belas bulan berlalu. Perempuan itu tak lagi tenggelam. Empat belas bulan diombang-ambingkan liarnya samudra buat ia mahir berenang. Setidaknya, ia cukup paham bagaimana cara naik ke permukaan dan mencuri sedikit banyak udara sebelum kembali dihempas ombak dan jatuh lagi ke kedalaman. Menahan napas menjadi ritualnya. Menahan sakit (dari nyeri yang timbul ketika seseorang terlalu lama menahan napas) menjadi nyanyiannya. Sebuah bentuk pujian dan penyembahan kepada pangeran yang bahkan tak menerimanya. Sebuah bentuk kesetiaan kepada cinta yang bahkan tak tahu namanya.
Kutanya para nelayan mengapa mereka tak pernah menemukan jasadnya.
Kata mereka, ia tak pernah berteriak minta tolong.
“Besok aku bekerja dari rumah. Aku bisa tidur sepuasnya.”
“Aku ingin tidur sepuasnya, dengan syarat aku bisa bertemu orang yang aku sayangi di mimpi.”
“Menarik. Apakah kalian akan bertemu di Filosofi Kopi?”
“Ya, mungkin. Dan setelahnya, kami akan makan lidah sapi bersama-sama.”
Ia tersenyum.
Let our souls be intertwined in bitter honey, sweet child—you have my heart forever. Claim my blood like a tiger would a territory, drape me in your finest jewelry. Let your voice be a poem of the lilies; let your whispers be a prose of the daisies.
Let my emotions be yours eternally, sweet child—you have my heart forever. You saved me when I was suffocating in my own brokenness and gathered my pieces from the ashes. You have my heart forever.
Kau membuat jatuh seperti
berjalan ke medan perang;
menantang cinta dengan
sebilah pedang.
Tumpul,
tahu betul tak akan menang.
Tumpul,
tetap saja aku menyerang.
The morning after relapse you find yourself drowning. Feeling like a soiled dress, ironically ironed perfect, waiting to be worn again. The morning after relapse reminds you of the oh-so-many ways things could go wrong, could turn bleak. Did go wrong, did turn bleak. Could swallow you whole into a never-ending spiral of doom, or worse. In the morning after relapse there are no ways to express pain, or guilt. It all just builds up into grief and anger, but mostly rage.
The evening after relapse you start questioning the whole of your sanity, the poor worn out stitches keeping the fabrics of your soul from falling apart. Where did the hours go? It felt like yesterday when you seemed born again, ready to take on the rest of the world. Where is that girl, the one that had promised not to be Gomer? The one that was loyal, brave and true like Mulan – she probably would’ve ended up a true Gryffindor, and you might as well be one of those traitor-like death eaters for all you know. There are dozens of rules to uphold and they only told you one thing: be good. Well, what is good and what is bad? What is dark magic, where does one stop and the other begin? How are you supposed to understand so many things? You are, after all, only twenty-two. What a lame excuse for a sinner, you object.
(more…)Before bed, we wash our faces. Slap a generous amount of aloe vera on our skin. Take selfies with no context or makeup or filters just to remember how we looked like that day. Before bed, we think about the things we’ve achieved—or at least—the things we’ve done today. We proceed then by thinking about how to maneuver tomorrow’s challenges.
Before bed, we consider how peculiar and strange this year and the last have been and we thank the Creator of the universe for having carried us thus far. for having taken care of us in the midst of uncertainties.
Before bed, we make a list of the so many things we are most grateful for in life.
Before bed we breathe. We pause. We think about the best friend who’s still trying to secure a job overseas. or the other best friend who’s focusing on her bakery business and teaching piano classes. Or the other best friend who’s leaving an internship at your place by the end of next month. or say, the one guy best friend who’s probably still busy working at this time of day. We think about the cousins we haven’t met in a year. About the friends that’ve grown distant in space and time, about the ones that suddenly reappeared as if by magic.
Before bed, we wonder whether anything would go back to normal, if it ever was, and the answer was most likely no, it won’t, so we sigh. We wonder whether the restaurants that closed in our favorite shopping mall would ever reopen again, since there were memories in that exact place. We think about how much we have to save up to buy a specific thing we’ve been wanting for months, but find out that our brains don’t work as well when sleepy, so we drop the topic.
Before bed, we sincerely hope that better days are coming for the ones we love and care about—there are probably more than thirty people on the list but we felt that it wasn’t enough—
So before bed, we pray.
Seperti kecewa yang merasuki lidah
dan sumpah serapah yang keluar dari tulang-belulang
Seperti kecewa yang merasuki tulang-belulang
dan sumpah serapah yang keluar dari lidah
Seperti amarah yang terpendam hebat
dan sedih yang meluap dalam sunyi
Seperti amarah yang meluap hebat
dan sedih yang terpendam dalam sunyi
Seperti harapan yang terlupakan
dan kenangan yang jadi angan-angan
Seperti harapan yang jadi angan-angan
dan kenangan yang terlupakan
Seperti samudra yang tenggelam dalam debu
dan hatiku yang memenjarakanmu
Seperti samudra yang memenjarakanmu
dan hatiku yang tenggelam dalam debu
Kamu menatapnya dalam-dalam; menelan semua garis wajahnya dalam satu teguk, menyimpan warna iris matanya dalam sekedip.
Ia menatapmu.
Kamu tersenyum.
Kamu selalu bilang padanya kalau kamu ingin sekali hari ini datang. Namun, batinmu selalu menolak untuk menghidupinya—tak perlu malu-malu, bulan pun tahu. Kamu tidak mau kehilangan dirinya.
“Hari itu ia menggunakan parfum baru, entah dari mana didapatkannya itu.”
seasalt memoirs 