Monolog 365 Hari Lagi Untuk Kehidupan

“Kejujuran itu sama mengerikannya dengan kematian. Dan aku tidak ingin mati. Aku ingin hidup. Merengkuh dunia. Merengkuh nikmat. Nikmat dunia. Hidup. Hidup untuk 365 hari lagi dari sekarang. Dan ketika ujung dari ke-365 hari itu tiba, aku akan berjanji untuk hidup lagi, 365 hari ke depan. Jauh dari kematian. Jauh dari…kejujuran? Ah. Biar. Biar saja. Apa kau pikir jujur itu mudah? Jujur itu indah? Aku hanya ingin hidup. Hidup megah. Mewah. Beli! Beli semua yang bisa kulihat dengan mataku, kuraba dengan tanganku, kudengar dengan telingaku, kucium dengan hidungku dan kumakan dengan mulutku, dan kuinjak dengan kakiku. Oh, maaf. Kau ternyata manusia ya? Maaf, aku kira kau keset. Kenapa pula kau bisa kuinjak? Kalau begitu, kubeli sekalian saja kau. Apa? Keluarga? Kubeli saja sekalian kau dengan keluargamu. Siapa tahu tidak hanya bisa kuinjak kau dan keluargamu, tapi bisa pula kumakan, kupakai, kuraba, kulihat, sampai sejauh mana kau dan keluargamu ingin pula hidup. Untuk 365 hari lagi. Kenapa pula hanya ada 365 hari lagi. Tak cukup cerita hidupku ini untuk menyelesaikannya. Bagaimana pula anak cucuku nanti? Tidak ingin pula aku mereka mengenal kematian. Aku bisa jadi contoh baginya. Wahai, anakku, berpalinglah kau dari kematian karena hidup itu nikmat. Jauh-jauhlah kau dari apa yang mendekatkan kau dengan kematian. Karena kematian itu kenyataan. Kenyataan itu rasanya pahit. Dingin. Sepi. Kurang bersahabat. Sama dengan kejujuran. Teman-temanmu akan menjauhimu. Akan disebutnya kau munafik. Sok berani. Sok beda. Sok bermoral. Aaah…pokoknya kurang bersahabat mereka jadinya. Maka susah pulalah hidup. Apa nikmat hidup begitu? Mana bisa nikmat hidup begitu? Kurang mewah lah rasanya. Kurang indah. Kurang…hidup…lebih dekat ke kematian rasanya kalau itu terjadi padaku. Matilah. Aaaah…mana mau aku? Mana mau anak-anakku? Mana mau istriku? Suamiku? Dan kau, kau dan keluargamu yang baru saja kubeli karena tadi kuinjak ituuu…Mana mau? Mana mau mereka mati? Mana mau aku mati? Karena aku jujur?”

The Clamped Shell Monologue

“You are my clamped shell.”
“I am?”
“Yeah. You’re like…I need effort and tools to open you.”
“Well…”
“I know we’ve lived with our selves separately for years, but…I just want you to know that…we can have a dialogue now. We don’t have to do monologues anymore.”
“I know, it’s a process.”

Isobel and The Five Years Dust-Coughs

What would you do when fate is looking at you in the eyes?
Do you chuckle? Buckle? Tackle?
What would you do when fate is an unfinished business?
Do you settle it? Forget it? Forgive it?
What would you do when fate is an unfinished business who’s by now is going up the stairs just when you are about to go down it and is about to look at you in the eyes any moment now?
***

She wished she died, and on the way to heaven, met this guy. Her ‘him’. So it meant that he died too. It was just going to be one of those days when it started ordinarily and ended up somewhat extraordinarily. Perhaps. She’d take anything from pleasant surprises, inspiring phone call from an old friend she hasn’t seen for years, a flower bouquet, extra money, dinner invite, to a run into an old friend. But not this. She was about to leave the restaurant after an impromptu dinner invite from her friend, whom suddenly felt the need to ‘try this new diner in the neighborhood. I’m bored. Let’s have dinner,’ her friend had said. She heard about the new place but was reluctant to go. Because of a history of what was the previous place kept before it was altered into the new diner. The place held ‘his ghost’ and ‘her ghost’ captured. Ghosts of two people impossibly in love. Two people of sometime ago. Some oddly haunting time ago. She could still remember every single detail of a moment in her life where she felt like everything was frozen into thin ice that was about to crack.

It did. Cracked. Shattered. The debris formed emotional stalagtyte and stalagmyte that occupied the back of her mind. For years. She had to create emotional earth quake to bury them and coughed out the dust one day at a time. For five years. And today, was supposed to be the last day she coughed it out. She thought it appropriate to rest the last remain of ‘his and her’ dust in the place where they were once belonged, though physically the place was entirely a different fit out now. It was supposed to be its perfect burial.

She laughed, coughed, ordered food and beverages, she indulged in conversations, coughed, she ran into a few people she and her friend knew too, she had fun, but she couldn’t help but being self conscious about the whole get up. It had been a while she thought of him. The dust cough had definitely helped a lot.  "Isobel, are you sick? You’ve been coughing. Doesn’t sound good. We leave after this one cigarette okay? Last one," her friend said. She confirmed that she was fine and said that it must have been the pepper she accidentally poured in her food. "It was too much. That’s okay we don’t have to leave now. But if you want to…" she confirmed.

They asked for the bill after Nin’s last cigarette and she excused herself to the ladies room. Downstairs. And that’s when she thought she died, and on the way to heaven, she met ‘him’. Fate. Whom was her unfinished business who was now looking into her eyes, half shocked half excited. His mouth opened to utter a word. Failed. But there was a mere sound of ‘uh’. The whole world rewinded into the moment she felt like she was frozen into thin ice, not yet cracked. She managed to move her eyeballs into the blank space behind him. He was alone. She tried to say something too, to confirm him that he was not alone in this strike of lightning moment. But her lips too stay agaped and her eyes stayed in his. She couldn’t even utter a lousy ‘uh’.

So, what would she do when fate was looking at her in the eyes?
What would she do when fate was an unfinished business?
What would she do when fate was an unfinished business whose feet were now on the staircase going half way, looked into her eyes, mouth agaped, and hand gestured stopped indicisively between reaching out to her arm and stopping it right before it reached her arm?

AAARGH…PLEASE…

STOP! STOP! STOP!
Stop breeding this country doesn’t need more idiots
Doesn’t need anymore uneducated citizen
Doesn’t need anymore malnourished cases
Doesn’t need anymore unemployed citizen
Doesn’t need anymore young corruptors who learn well from their parents
Doesn’t need anymore underpaid workers
Doesn’t need them anymore
Because we have a plenty already
Stocking up in various locations and various post codes

STOP! STOP! STOP!
Stop builiding this country doesn’t need more malls
For crying out loud. For fuck’s sake. For God’s sake.
Doesn’t need anymore new found roads
Doesn’t need anymore car dealer and showroom
Doesn’t need anymore TRADE FUCKING CENTER
Doesn’t need anymore tallest, highest, most modern office fucking building
Doesn’t need anymore ridiculously expensive and far from affordable real estates and apartments and condos and town fucking houses
Doesn’t need them anymore
Because we have a plenty already
Sticking out from various locations and various post codes

PLEASE!
Don’t you know any better? (course not, we’re uneducated and underdeveloped)
Don’t you want a better life? (maybe not, what’s a better life like?)
Don’t you wish for a better breed? (can’t care less as long as my kids born with proper organs)
Don’t you see that we all have to stop being pregnant for a while? (why? but my parents want grandchildren, they’re getting old)
Don’t you care that we should all stop buying cars and bikes for a while? (but taxis are expensive and public transport aren’t convenient)
Don’t you think that it’s about time for everyone to stop being so full of themselves? (what is this gibberish of the less fortunates?)

Motherfuckingidiotsbornoutofplainfuckingwithlessloveandnutrientsinmindwilldelivermoremotherfuckingidiotswhomcanbesuchassholesbecausetheydon’tknowanybetterbecauseit’stheexampletheylivebyandbecausethey’reparentsdon’tknowanybetterbecausethat’smainstreamandthat’sokaybecauseeverybodyelseisdoingitandbecausenoneofuswanttoknowanybetterbecausewhybecauserottenseedsharvestrottentreesharvesthalfrottenfruitsharvestlessfavoredproduceThat’sjustthefoodproduceimaginewhatlessqualifiedseedswouldharvestwhatkindofhumanforthenextgeneration…

There’s I in reincarNATion

When I’m upset I feel like tearing flesh. Smashing walls and crashing cars. Shooting idiots and sending my telekinetic gift out to play and then setting my alarm to ‘READY TO EXPLODE’ so I can explode all together with my rage. Leaving no bits. No pieces. No dust. Explode. Implode. Vapours. Then in time, I will be brand new again. In time. Of reincarnation. It could be the same old me all over again. It could be something. Like a golden retriever or an electrical plug. Or a little lady love bug. All red with black dots. So me. Perhaps then I can be much in love again. And less in rage.

Drama Queen With A Penis

Hello! I know you. Yes, you!
You’re a drama queen with a penis
Whose words and actions are acts of genious
Of mental mastery with a hint of taboo

You sway the ladies with a knowing smile
Oh, how sweet it tastes like a cup of chamomile
Another collection in your black book file
Of a short romance that seems worthwhile
Unaware that they’d be tossed in the pile

Of another lost heart, another woman
Another designed and manufactured moment
Artificially colorful like a piece of cheap garment
Watch out ladies, he’s you bad omen

It starts with you see her sitting there melancholy
You move in with adorned and fabricated pity
And a darn long tail-tale of tragedy
Charm her with extra honesty
Of wild past and ancient love stories so uncanny
Woe her till she falls inevitably
And surrenders her shoulder so willingly
All for the sake of marinated vanity

Your motives are always somewhat obscure
But you aim high and spare no space for failure
And leave your victim with a midsentence closure
Because you, are a drama queen with a certain stature
Whom has become a distinct figure

Of a rather lame player
For those whom had known better
And learned how to handle The Ol’ Putter
By simply telling you, ‘See you later.”

But you, you’re a drama queen with a penis
Determine to convince each woman is a Venus
Oblivious to the fact that your behavior is heinous
Because you, are a drama queen with a penis

You care less for real feelings
You conquer to heal your own shortcomings
Of your inability to end even the worst flings
Leaving each and everyone of them perspiring
And adore your being mysterious
Not knowing that underneath your sweetness
You’re just a petty drama queen with a penis.

Buried in the Bermuda Triangle

I found it. At last. I think it’s wonderful. It’s phenomenal. A talk-of-the-town concept. A solid method to die phenomenally. It’s suspiciously committing suicide, but in a grander way. If, if, I ever thought of committing suicide, then this is what I would do. No, it’s not the ‘gas chamber’ method. It’s not the dramatically painfull drama queen way of slithing the wrist. Nor it’s the middle low class way of hanging your self or the messy rat poison or any poison drinking thing, nor the messy jump off the balcony or such and such floor thing. It’s a trip. A trip to the Bermuda Triangle, where my ship would be swallowed by its bizarre power, suck down and sunk into its depth and the world beyond, not to be found again. And not even my ghost can escape.

It might be expensive. But it would work. It would work.

The Conversation That Never Happens

“I met someone else.”
“Yeah, really? Does he love you? Are you happy? Are you in love with him?”
“Love? Does it matter? I respect him as a person. And yes, I’m happy. Don’t…!”
“I wasn’t going to say anything. I was just going to say that, it’s good that you met someone you respect and made you happy.”
“O, shut up. I know you’re hurt. Don’t you dare comparing what we had to what I’m having now. It’s useless. He’s different, he doesn’t remind me of anyone, of you. I find more sense with him than when I was with you, or whatever it was that we had.”
“O, really? Did you not say you love me? Did you not say you’d wait for me? I had decided to…”
“Decided to what? To what? I did wait for you. I tolerated our existence to the point that it made me feel like a fool. Things failed to make sense. I loved you. But in the end, leaving made more sense than staying.”
“Look at me. Look at me in the eyes and tell me, tell me that you’ve stopped loving me.”
“No. I have not stopped loving you. But it’s been four years. I could have earned a master’s degree. A lot had happened in four years. And my memories of you belonged to a past that there weren’t enough to hang on to. It’s hard to hang on to the past. I guess I just stopped believing in you. In us. I’m sorry. We make no sense. I can’t lie to myself that I loved you, but if you can’t be with me, I don’t see the point in being stubborn. Yes, your presence still makes me shiver. Yes, hearing your name still shakes me to shreds, numbs my senses and sends me into momentary dumbness, but… I want to move on. I want to have a different life that doesn’t remind me of you anymore.”
“Now we can. We can at last be together. Don’t do this to me. I have come back for you. I want us to be together. Those years I managed without hearing anything from you at all, was hell. Was hell. It was like my whole consciousness had stopped living, my life made almost no sense. I was just this mechanical, automated, hollow person. I could live but not without you. It’s a different life. I love you. I want us. I want you. You know that. You know how we connect. There were days that I wished I could just say your name with no guilt.”
“I can’t. I had given my whole love for you that last day we spoke. You took it all in full while I exploded into dust. That day, I wanted you to be hurt. To feel the same pain I felt. I wanted you to feel loveless. Because I gave mine to you.”
“But we are here now. We can start all over again. Leave him. Leave him, you don’t love him. You love me. Remember?”
“I have lost the ability to make new love. My love for you is a love made in the past. It belongs, to the past.”
“Then grow new one. We’ll start new. Don’t you want to get to know me again?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Please, please, think about this. This is… fate. Why do you think we’re here now? To start new. To get to know each other again. To be together at last.”
“I…I’m sorry…I don’t feel the same way you do now. I told you, I’ve met someone. This guy, he’s…he’s wonderful. He likes me the way I am…”
“I do too! I love you the way you are! I always have!”
“I know. But real life doesn’t work that way. You don’t just fall in love and leave and decide to live your life like robot, tell me you’re sorry and expect me to be your friend, and now you tell me you’ve come back for me. Out of the blue. Just like that.”
“Because I know, my future is with you.”
“Then it won’t be this future. Not now. We have no idea what we had to go through when we weren’t together, but I’m sure it was some journey that we had. But I can’t start liking someone and leave him. Because I do like him. I may even suspiciously starting to fall for him. He’s wonderful. He sees me as a person in a whole. He doesn’t question, he learns, he gets to know me, he calms me down. He lets me be myself.”
“I let you be yourself too. You know I never question your whole self. I can do better than him. I LOVE, you. I’m in love with you. You can’t do this to me. If I can’t be with you then I can’t be. I’ve left my whole other life just to be with you. Leave him. Be with me.”
“Where were you, when all I ever wanted was to be with you?”

Chic Disorder

It’s hard to dress and find clothes when you’re options are on piles. On top of each other. Jeans on top of pants on top of shirts and jackets and underwears and socks. Working shirt on top of skirt on top of long socks and scarves and pajamas. On top of more dresses and skirts. Pillow cases and bed sheets. Now, where is that white shirt and my favorite jeans? Where is it where is it where is it…? Mom is yelling from downstairs telling me to hurry up. It’s not easy to figure out wardrobe combination of 6 days within 10 minutes when your clothes are on piles. It’s my fault. I don’t want to find the time to fold them properly. Organize them in colors and stack them up in the cupboard. I have no energy and the motivation to complete the chores. So much ceremonial chores…just to fold them and stack them up and pull them out again for another week… I wish I were Paris Hilton. So I can buy and wear all my clothes just once and give them away on the spot when I’m done with it.

Mom’s yelling my name one more time from downstairs. I managed to shove in a few tops, pants, sets of underwear and socks, a scramble of accessories, and a few scarves. I’m just going to improvise a lot this week. A lot.

Bersucilah Kau Umar…Atas Nama Umat…

Ramadhan lagi, lagi-lagi Ramadhan. Umat berlomba-lomba untuk menjadi suci. Menjadi bersih. Menjadi alim. Menjadi orang yang bukan mereka (penebangan hutan terus berjalan, lumpur terus menyeruak dari dalam bumi, pemerasan dan harga tilangan Polisi makin mahal demi ‘THR’, dst, dsb). Untuk apa? Untuk permohonan maaf kepada Tuhan. Kepada Allah S.W.T. Tidak mengapa. Toh hanya sebulan. Bertingkah lakulah kau, wahai umat, yang santun. Yang agamis. Yang rapi lah kau tutupi itu auratmu. Yang santun pulalah cakapmu. Sebulan. Tenang saja. Hanya sebulan ini. Beratus-ratus kali kami sudah berpuasa dan beribadah pada ratusan Ramadhan, mengapa keadaan tidak berubah? Apakah mungkin ada yang salah dengan cara kita beribadah? Dengan cara kita bersorban, berjilbab dan berteriak ‘Allahu Akbaaaaarrrrrr…!’? Dengan cara kita memandang Tuhan? Oh, maaf, ini bulan puasa, ada baiknya kau sebut Tuhan dengan Allah S.W.T. Mengapa semakin banyak pemeluk aku semakin muak melihat umat? Semakin tertutup aurat semakin jelas terbuka aib mereka? Terlihat dari mata-mata mereka. Dari kata-kata mereka. Dari cibiran mereka kepada yang tidak sepaham. Dari cara mereka saling kelompok-mengelompokkan. Dari cara mereka makan. Dari cara mereka berpelesir ke mal-mal. Yang semakin megah. Dan sering membuat mesjid-mesjid jengah. Dan sekolah-sekolah terkesan payah. Agama baru apa pula itu Mal? Seperti apakah Tuhan-nya? Karena kami hanya tahu malaikat-malaikatnya. Calvin Klein. Diane Von Furstenberg. Fendi. Loewe. Kate Spade. Prada. Marc Jacob, Gianfranco Ferre. Louis Vuiton. Neimann Marcus. Debenhams… malaikat-malaikat yang cantik, tampan dan modis. Dikultuskan sedemikian rupa sehingga harus ada replika mereka berserakan di pasar-pasar Blok M, Mangga Dua, Senen, dan pasar gelap.

Mungkinkah umat punya dua Tuhan? Dan banyak malaikat-malaikat dari Tuhan yang berbeda? Seperti Tuhan Mal, Tuhan Sinetron, Tuhan Arisan Tetangga, Tuhan Koruptor, atau Tuhan-Tuhan lainnya yang diam-diam punya lebih banyak umat dan penyembah? Semakin banyak pemeluk semakin keras kurasa dunia. Semakin panas. Semakin kencang. Mengapa ledakan bom saja yang kudengar? Apakah memang ada umat model baru? Yang sengaja tercipta tanpa telinga? Kecuali dia umat yang lain? Sudah hilangkah toleransi mereka terhadap telinga umat lain yang terlahir dengan telinga normal? Sudah hilang kah kuasa senyum dan tutur yang manis dan sopan? Urat dan otot jadi panutan. Siapa yang paling terlihat urat dan ototnya ketika ber-’Allahu Akbaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrr…!’? Dialah panutan. Siapa yang paling terlihat tertutup auratnya? Dialah panutan. Tapi aku tidak ingin melihat kain. Aku ingin melihat senyum. Senyum umat yang santun dan tutur yang sopan dan manis dan ikhlas. Macam senyum orang-orang di Thailand, di Vietnam, di Jerman, di Afrika. Aku tidak ingin mendengar otot dan urat. Aku ingin mendengar suara lembut yang ikhlas dari golongan yang katanya mayoritas. Aku ingin merasakan kesederhanaan dalam memahami Ramadhan dan hari-hari lainnya. Tanpa iming-iming kuis SMS, tanpa iming-iming surga, tanpa iming-iming pahala. Aku hanya ingin berpuasa karena aku ingin beribadah. Bukan karena kalau tidak, berarti dosa. Aku hanya ingin, Allah S.W.T. yang jadi penilai ibadahku. Bukan Umat. Bukan Umar. Bukan Kau. Dan kamu yang tertutup auratmu dan lantang teriakan Allahu Akbar-mu.