03-07-2016.

16:33

I never once told anyone on what the hell it is that I am doing.
Not everyday stuffs, not things that people could see.
I mean, the thing that I am talking about is indeed something that people could see, but I’ve been hiding it since almost a year ago.
And I’m not good at hiding things that I am doing.
Maybe I am, but not this one particular thing.

Since the first day of my work, I’ve spent my writing and reading hours at the office, because it feels like I’m practically doing nothing outside my work.
At least that’s what I really feel right goddamn now.

On the occasion of writing things, I would be absorbed with my pen and paper.
It’s as if I have this one giant bubble that surrounds me and separates me from the outside world, that everything would suddenly be quiet, and all I could hear is my heartbeat, my breathing, and the scratching sound the pen made on the paper.
Some people would look at me and wonder on what the hell it is that I am doing.
But most people don’t, mainly because they think that I’m just randomly scribbling something related to work and all.
And I, would prefer the latter.

It has been four months since I’ve started writing in the office.
Few people that constantly came to the common room during that time, suddenly thought that it was a good thing to ask me on what the hell it is that I was doing.
To make it worse(?), all of them did.
I tried to answer them with a smile, but as the culture of the 95% of people in my office is naturally curious, I had no choice but to answer them.
The most common answer from me would be:

“Just some planning regarding to work-related things. Nothing much.”

Oh, me, you’re a great bloody liar, aren’t you?
Well I guess I am, one hell of a liar when it comes to my writings.
And I got away with it, every single time.
They would say nothing about it, some would praise me for my perseverance,
And some would just say nothing because they have sated their curiosity.
See? It’s not like they care about what it is that I am doing.
It’s not like people asking me about it because they care to me.
They launched their questions just for the sake of quenching their curiosity.

It was simply because they wanted to know.

I wouldn’t deny that there is a possibility that care stems from curiosity.
There are some people that become care to other people simply because they were curious about them in the first place.
Yet, it was not the cause for them.
Usually, caring comes from empathy.
With our empathy to people – usually people that we care about – we become care about them and their well-being; about them and their happiness.
Now, I don’t really care if there are no people that care about me and whatever it is that I am doing related to my writings.
I don’t even care the slightest tiniest bit.
Think of it: I don’t have to explain to them on the cause and the reason why am I writing all this shit in the first place.

I mean, I still have to explain things.
But inks are better than voice: I could etch my words forever on papers.
And papers are better than people: they DO NOT ask questions NOR judge.
They listen, and they listen so bloody well.

But all of thoughts above made me thinking.
What would I say if, let’s say, someone suddenly demands the truth?
What kind of words would I say to them?
What kind of story would I tell them?
What kind of reaction would they show to me after?

……………

“Short version or the long version?”

“Both.”

“I fell –no, I walked willingly into love 7 years ago. I let love planted its seed deep inside my heart. It grew in dry, cracked soil without little to no water. And it continued to grew in neglected environment, and still grew even though it has been trampled numerous times by numerous people. Including myself.”
“And the owner came and gave her utmost care in tending it. It grew and grew. It was as if my heart has been replaced by it. You could say that there is a heart-shaped roots inside my heart. No, not my heart. My heart is fucking gone, it has been replaced with this one love, with its root that covered up my whole soul.”
“Something happened to the owner. She abruptly left without any clear explanation. Leaving questions behind. Not only questions, but she’s leaving the love that she was tending. It was as if she left it to wither and die. Now don’t ask me what happened with the owner that made her leave me and the love. I don’t goddamn know. I mean, I know, I just still don’t understand the sane and realistic reasons behind all that has happened to her.”
“At this timeline I began to write, I began to pour out my thoughts and feelings in words. I began to abstractly describe the things that was and still is bugging me every single day. Love is one of them, and it is by far the strongest force that drive me to do all my writings.”
“But she lied – she accidentally lit a fire inside of me because I wander too close to her. She was burning, ignited by those who did some awful things to her. You could say that it broke my heart. You could say that my heart broke to pieces like a coffee mug being thrown to the floor. But I would prefer being burned by her. Yes, I was burned by someone that I so, so dearly love.”
“… I was thoroughly burned.”

I looked outside the window.
Houses. Buildings. Offices. Streets. Trees. Roofs. Cars. People. Blue skies. Clouds. Windows. Grass. Traffic. Birds.
I suddenly contemplate on why do those things exist.
Bukowski once wrote: “There is a loneliness in this world so great that you can see it in the slow movement of the hands of a clock.”
But one thing that Charles Bukowski might missed was:

Loneliness does not choose its medium for people to recognize it.

For it resides within the various color of the roofs.
It reflected on every size and color of windows.
It shows itself in the shape of every car that pass by on the street.
It shows itself in the faces of people that walk on the side of the road.
It peeks from behind the branches and leaves in every trees that I could see.
It paints itself in the abstract shapes of clouds with blue skies as its canvas.
It uses birds as a carrier of its message.

Maybe that’s why they exist.
To carry loneliness.
To constantly remind me of my longing.
To constantly remind me of my unmoved love.

And if they ceased to exist? If they suddenly gone?
If I’m left with nothingness?

Loneliness does not choose its medium.
It will resides itself inside of me, with or without all of those.

As it already has right now.

“…. And what happened? You stopped halfway through.”

“What do you think happened to me? Or rather, what do you think I’ve been doing ever since that fateful day happened to me and her?”
“What do you actually perceive after seeing me writing things, after I’ve told you all of those things that happened to me in both short and long – that would make it medium – version?”

“Do you still love her? After what happened to her? After what she has done to you? After you miserably failed to understand the sane and realistic reasons behind what happened to her because it really was quite far from making any sense?”

“People say it would be better to understand someone than to judge them. And it is exactly the thing that I am doing ever since. I want to understand what happened to her, and I want to understand why she made those choices.”
“We all had and will be faced with choices. And I believe she made her choice for reasons. Reasons that she and I might or might not understand. But, if there’s anything that I’ve learned after all this time – after all this 7 years – is: never question the Universe. I’ll keep believing in her. Both hers – the Universe, and her.”
“Do I love her? Do I fucking love her? That’s a stupidly stupid dumb question that does not need an answer because it’s already so obvious and all.”
“The answer is: Without a single bloody doubt.”

I look down, and see the pen and paper that I’m holding in my hands.
I look forward, and I see the same landscape as before.

Nothing has changed since I started telling the story.

Just like nothing has changed inside of me since years, and years ago.

“So you do love her that much.”
“After all this time?”

“… Always.”

 

V.A.C.W.


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