#theofseries

[capriciousscorsagian]

Of Silence and Lies

"Hey, I had this really bizarre dream last night. It was like a fusion between Pacific Rim, Endless Summer, and Mass Effect all rolled up into one, and-"

"Yeah you probably watch too much movies."

"…But there's only one movie I mentioned…"

"Too much games then."

"…"

"God, I was so scared, I was almost got ran down by a motorcycle on my way-"

"Did you pray beforehand?"

"Uh, yeah, I did?"

"You probably didn’t do it enough, you should  be more pious."

"…"

"Hey, when are you gonna finish it?"

"Um…"

"The lady from across the street has been asking, you know. So does Mr. X and my friend Z."

"…"

"Why don’t you stack it so you wouldn’t have to go back all over again?"

"I don’t know how."

"Oh, I can help you-"

"No need!"

"…"

"Hey, why are you so quiet? You should talk to me."

"…"

"How can I help if you won't talk?!"

"…"

"Hey, are you okay? What happened?"

A concerned voice, soft touch on shoulder. Real? Fake?

Rapid blinking, cheeks wet, lump in throat. It doesn’t matter anyway.

"This story is so sad!"

A relieved smile, head shaken, slightly disapproving expression.

"Ugh, I thought it was something serious."

A wobbly grin plastered, hands shakily clenched.

"It is serious!"

The greatest lie is the most blinding.

And people are blind to what they don’t want to see.

[capriciousscorsagian]

Of A Name and A Treasure

"My name means powerful," you said. "Doesn't describe me much, does it?" At the time, I could only stood there aghast. You started to talk about other things and I could only follow feebly, even though at the back of my mind, your words still rang relentlessly.

Doesn't describe me much, does it?

That night I laid awake on my bed, staring at the dusty white ceiling as I recalled our conversation that morning.

How come 'powerful' does not describe you?

You, who offered a hand to help another up when you were still shaky on your feet.

You, who stood up and raised your voice, protecting those you don't know, and don't know you.

You, who stood defiant against the giant, even with the slight tremble of your voice that they mercilessly preyed on.

You, who set your course for the future in certitude, looking straight ahead despite all the jeers that tried to shake you.

You, who shook your head gently and smiled to stop me as I berated a wretched being who dared mock your gentleness.

You, who survived twelve months of a hellish path you were compelled to take, when others who chose it tumbled one by one.  

That's why you should listen, when I tell you,

Your name describes you perfectly.

And I hope you understand, when I add,

Your name also meant beloved.

[capriciousscorsagian]

Of Colors and Memories

Pink Soft and cheerful Childish innocence Princesses' dress Petty fight and winning it A pair of roller blades Still wistfully wishing A grin and eyes full of wonder Contentment

Green Fresh and constant The start of an adventure Searching for a fitting piece Self-reliance and confidence Five letters to three Cusp of metamorphosis Prided victory in hand Cultivation

Purple Glamour and mystery Shaky steps forward Slippery slope and prickling pebbles Ghosts of past wonders Questioning, keep questioning Empty stares and doubts Slipping, tumbling down Deterioration

Blue, green, and purple Forked lines and intertwined paths Red, pink, and cream Unconscious stares and empty canvas Too pale, too empty A hint of red might do nicely

Part of The Of Series

[capriciousscorsagian]

Of A Lesson in Life and in Love

I was a sheltered girl, even more so in the three years of my junior high. I was used to interacts with girls, in an environment that had become familiar to me. A brand-new school, in a brand new region, with a brand new environment and people and culture and everything else. Enough to make even the bravest of teenager cautious.

And yet despite all that, it managed to find me.

I was clueless, pretty much always has been. In the beginning, I took it as just another teasing from my classmates. Mostly it was aimed to him, anyway, and I've never been one to really pay attention to the circulating rumors and peer judgments.

I let it slide. Times and again. I was not sure when was the first time I came to realize that, Oh… This guy does like me.

And just like that, we texted each other back and forth. I remember feeling giddy and rosy. I would smile just remembering him. A classmate of mine once said, in good-nature, more like wondering, without any intention to irk me, "To be honest, I could not see you with him… I mean, you don’t look like you'll fit together."

I said, incredulously, "You don’t even know him."

Oh, but did I?

Looking at it all now, I just felt so young and stupid.

 Don't get me wrong, I don’t blame him for anything. At least not now that I can see how childish I was. Both of us were young. I was especially inexperienced. But it can’t be denied that every single of our miscommunications, every single of my constipated feelings, every single disappointment I'm sure he had, are affecting me.

I've never dreamed of crying over a boy but I did.

But I've learned a lesson.

I don’t know if there's something wrong with me now because I, in reality, adapt wrongly to the lesson. I'd like to think that I've become a better person in that department, even if often I wonder if I'm just broken…

 Thinking about it all back often makes me angry, because how could I let myself be affected so much by one person? And THAT person nonetheless.

But I learn that, it's not really about how someone affects you, but more of how far you let them affect you. Because when I think about those times, what I remember is the actions, what he did, and my reaction, what I'm feeling, not him.

 I've learned my lesson.

And that's okay. I'm okay now.

Part of The Of Series

[capriciousscorsagian]

Of A Bus and A Tiny Tickler

This morning, when I was trying to sleep on the bus, I felt a faint movement on the back of my hand. Ant. I thought, and proceeded to sweep it away as gently as possible with my other hand without even opening my eyes. I was drowsy and sleepy, the result of staying up late reading a Helen Oyeyemi's novel.

I felt the ant swept away and I slipped away, back into sleep. Then, I felt it again. At the same exact spot, my sleep-addled brain tried to add. I swept it away again, still not opening my eyes. I am sleepy, let me be.  I half-coherently murmured to myself, only in my head of course, or else the lady who sat beside me would think I was talking to her.

The sensation was gone again. I was not sure how long, but I felt it was only a moment until it appears again. Still at that spot. With my eyes still closed, I tried a different method. I picked it up with my thumb and index finger, gently, as not to squeeze it. I let the ant go at the gap between my legs and the seat in front of me. My knuckle hit the seat as my hand moved to find the gap. My legs are folded back into the bottom  of my seat. Go, go away peacefully. Stop tickling me. I thought sleepily. Finally. Peace.

Once more, I dozed off for what felt like just a moment until there was that sensation, again. This time the position is a little off, closer to my thumb. I finally opened my eyes, and there it was, right under my cold nose and bleary eyes, a small, brownish-red insect. Almost see-through. Such a tiny thing, its appendages are even smaller. I wonder how my hands could feel its movements, its tiny feet walking around the hairs on the back of my hand… 

I almost dozed off again. I gently picked it up and deposited it on the floor of the bus, under the seat in front of me. Satisfied that the little tickler has find a new place to tickle away, I dozed off again, this time without any disturbance of little appendages navigating around the fuzz on my hand.  

When I woke up, already nearing my destination, I wondered about the little ant. Why was it alone? Where did it come from? What is it doing here? I remembered the way it disappeared after I looked at it properly, and it got me thinking, maybe it was lonely, and just want someone to look at it. Somehow it makes me want to cry.

Part of The Of Series

[capriciousscorsagian]

Of A Cage and Video Games

Someone asked me once, ‘Why do you like to play video games so much?”

I was quite preoccupied with said games, so I just answered nonchalantly, “I like the exploration”

Later, it just occurred to me that my answer was truly appropriate.

In real life I often feel suffocated, caged, I have no way out. I want to see this, I want to go there, I want to try that. But I am bound, physically, mentally, by other people, by culture, by money, by responsibility, by myself, by the world and its systems. 

When I was little, my favorite game was make-believe. My imaginary friends who would never exist in real life and I would climb tables, chairs, beds, pile of cement, and pretended it was mountains, hills, something more, something beyond. Something new that I can explore. Something that my real, tiny self could not reach in real life.

Now, 10 years later, I’m still standing at the same spot, playing make-believe for something that I can’t reach. Albeit with different method, different places to explore. I’m still itching, searching, for that something. But I am caged and bound and it starting to feel so suffocating, so binding and I can’t let go.

Part of The Of Series

[capriciousscorsagian]

Of Writing and Flexibility

I couldn't even remember the first time I write my thoughts...

My father has always been fond of writing, and both he and my mother always encourage me to write in a diary ever since I'm little. I remember that I used to write about the simplest thing, the huge rat I saw at a dumpster near my school, the binder book my friend's mother gifted to me out of the blue, the drama of elementary school girls. My entry would be filled by only a few lines about what happens to me that day. Sometimes it doesn't even contain anything particular, I just wrote that nothing special happened to me that day. Although, my inconsistency apparently has shown its seeds even then, since I couldn't write consistently for more than several days. Consistency has always been an enemy of mine in the case of creative process. Writing, painting.... I still can't comprehend how artists can draw their character repeatedly without needing to be in (what I call) Copying Mode (basically it's when I pour all my concentration into copying things).

I'm quite flexible (but not physically) in many aspects of my personality, but in my creative process, that flexibility has grown into a monster that can only be described as inconsistency. I'm quite sure that there are people (there are right?) who feels like this too, and I wonder how do you face it? Do you just let it be? Do you have something to, I don't know, classify the inconsistencies? Standardized it? (Do I sound like a lib&info student? That makes me feel like it. But well I am, so.) But yeah I'm starting to ramble. I just want to write something. I want to try to write regularly, again. And this time I hope it will stick. My father has also started to write regularly again (although not in this blog, probably).   So I kind of feel empowered, or something. Also, a media to practice my English, duh. Most of the time I feel more... comfortable? No that doesn't sound right...  It's just that most of the time writing in English feels more right to me rather than in Bahasa Indonesia, which is my first language.

But yeah that's my rambling for today. If you recognize yourself in these words, if you feel something stirring inside.... then message me personally please, don't run away, I'm not a mythical monster, I promise (and yes that's a blatant PJO reference).

Part of The Of Series