CerPen-Saya

Love is a Woman


It was in the misty morning of April that I started to think about him again. It was my birthday. After six months working in this new place, life has become monotonous again. As usual, typical. I sat and tried to scrabble something on my note. Anything to proved my sanity and bring back the sudden vibrate into my brain. I won’t let my life turned into one piece of rusty iron that one day be abandoned.

So, I think of him. In an unusual way. The relationship between us was something real and unreal. We never met. As millions people in this earth, technology allows me to get close and personal to a stranger without have to physically involve. It was just you flowing and bouncing from one message to another. Sometimes it surprises you when you read it again and wonder if it’s really you who wrote it. Then you become wondering if the relationship is real, if the feeling is exist. Sometimes what you read is not what you gonna get. Heartbreaking.

I think of him.

I don’t need to open the file of his messages. They lived in my memory. They danced, laughed and mocked me. He’s a man who implicitly has the soul of feminism. I don’t know what type of feminism but he once said he wished I could smack men’s face. He’s a man. I’m a woman.

He’s a man. I’m a woman. I wish he ever thought about it seriously. Although not impossible for me to smack someone face but I don’t bear to think of doing such masculine action. I’m a woman. I’m feminine. I want to be mother. I don’t do violence. Otherwise I might as well become a man. I’m a woman. That is real.

He hates men. I used to have the same hatred. His hatred is present, mine is the past. It was him that change that perception. It was the feeling I had for him whether it’s real or not that kept emerging strange pulse that any in love human would feel. In this man, who hates his own kind, I learned about the bitter of open wound and the will to held my pride high.

I sat on the edge of my bed. He might be hate his mother but it was scrapped under his id. My amateur analyse can be wrong. His messages is typically manhood. I wonder if he’s going to hit me if I was a man.

It was nice of him to asked me to smack men on their face. What’s my gain? Will it make me a better woman? Will if prove the world I’m stronger than them? Why can’t I prove it in my way, woman’s way?

Perhaps he just wanted to say that as a woman I have the right and power to do the action. But a woman would ask herself twice before hurting another human. Men would think this as dumb but is it? I won’t slap anyone face. My pride, even if it’s high, could never be as high as his as a man. I’m a woman.

I folded my feet. I let all energy flowed to the core of the earth. Melting the clock’s ticking.

I used to be an enthusiast and naïve feminist. Then through my reading I realised I just want to be a real woman not super woman.

I took a shower a few minutes. While I was drying myself, my eyes was fulfilled by the sight of my note on the bed. I played Audioslave’s Like a Stone. I did feel like a stone right now, threw into the lake and slowly drowning.

I have this net-love-aching syndrome that happens to many lonely people in the world. Internet offered them the space and affection words from anyone around the globe and make it seems real as it can be. Better than nothing. Better than staring at the barren sky. Much better than hopeless. Stupidity.

We exchanged message through sms and I like to read some of them, which has become a favorite line for me. All of them were sweet messages. Some were formal, smart, light, short.

How’s your day? Is my favorite. Many people has asked the same question, even my parents. Somehow it brought different feeling when he asked it. It’s like jerk me up. Why?

I’m no fool but I believe the wiseman said that heart has its own soul. He sent me a package for my birthday. It was suppose to indicate that our relationship is officially a friendship. We both are liars.

Some expressions have no match words to describe them. Then they left unsaid. They’re like air, you feel it but can’t grasp it. You know it when it’s gone. You can’t breath.

I have stopped sent him any messages. Doesn’t mean I stop thinking of him and the words he had sent. His words will live on.
He brought out my sense of womanhood. He challenged my will to be a woman of my own. He doubted my believe. He’s like Plato and I’m Alexander The Great, his student that will conquer the East and West.

My answers sometimes childish compare to his vast knowledge. My replies often a self-defence. He’s like trying to take off my clothes by force. After I get naked, he starred and laughed at me. What is so funny anyway?

He avoids love. I’m looking for one. He’s on the moon and I’m in the crack of the earth. I feel like ash, able to fly without wings or becoming Superman. I feel tiny.

We have past to share, to joy and to shame. He’s frigid and I need to be touched. He’s real and I’m the woman. What do you make of it?

He thinks housewives are the cheapest prostitutes, I think they are silent heroes. His views are centuries-man-made and I’m a woman, a concept too simple that he missed. Maybe that’s why I was slipped out of his hands.

Housekeeping can be boring. It took forever to finish it because it never actually finished. It’s a cycle. Men can do it but it’s women’s divine to have it closely associate with her nature. I don’t like cleaning and the preach from my father was always started by: “You’re a woman. You should…” (add anything from cleaning to sewing into the blank). Because I’m a woman I should do this and that. Because he’s a man he should do that and this. We both are trapped! But maybe I’m the only one who knew it.

I think of him like Juliet to Romeo. But I don’t have poison in hand and what is the point of killing myself over a man? I’d rather deal with the pain than avoid it. You can’t be tough man unless you feel the pain.

He thinks love is too risky. I think love is all. Love makes you weak, limp, sad, broken, stupid, blind and in other times it can be strong, unbreakable, genius, happiness, complete and live.
Love and life are risky, but I’m a fearless lady. One thing I forgot to tell him. I’ll take what I get.

He avoids me, that’s for sure. I don’t know what’s he afraid to see in me. I don’t know much of him and so do I. These uncertainties maybe too much to handle. We both are just a child. I’m still looking for my path, if any. I’m still visioning where I fit best. Is there empty seat available for my being?

I want to see his smile, his face not a picture but a face. I want to feel the look of his eyes. It won’t happen now or tomorrow but maybe years after today when all the feeling have sank to the bottom of my heart, where it would safely hidden but not forgotten.

I knew very well that some men suffered a silly difficulty in saying simple emotion like I LOVE YOU.

He might have been stung by a lovely bee that left him. He might be in healing process after scratching his skin with red rose’s thorns. All of these mights are typically a woman trying to get into man’s head. I know it won’t work. I’m a woman.
One day I hope he wakes up and realised the thorns are as beautiful as the roses.

How old is love? How ancient is it?
The memories of my life, manufactured by the reel of black and white film, is like an album. Each frame caught a moment, frozen in seconds. Playback like a home video. Amazing is it of how technology can move your mood upside down?

It captured the portrait of me in various expressions. The face is the same, mine. The atmosphere always changing.

There were times when he filled the blank moment around me like a blanket to my body. Like a fan to the dry weather. Like illusion to humours me.

He’s a man. He was born that way. He lives the life bitterly but I wonder if were as fragile as I am.

The sun has rise above the sky. High upon the silence space, beyond anyone reach. Sometimes I feel that way.
Despite all that, I don’t think we can live in another dimension but virtual world we created. I learned that from all dangerous feeling, hatred is the most lethal. It can lead you to infatuation. Nothing is last.

The wireless connection indeed much saver. It’s easy to stop the communication with anyone. Easier than trying to disconnect your feeling.

Should I be a serious woman to get attention? Basic question a woman would ask before she finally chooses to attend the college. Maybe writing a piece about feminism and international politics. But someone with three academic titles on the front and back of his or her name will done it better that I do. I just follow these little fingers of mine pressing the keyboard of my computer.

I’m dreaming of become a housewife. A profession I wish more respect can be earned from mankind. I want to be a woman I am, a gender I longed to be acknowledged as part of homo sapiens species.

I spent days asking why he refused to see me. He has explained the reason but it seemed unclear and absurd. Instead making his point visible, he brought a secret within. A secret guarded like a precious treasure or is it a huge sore beneath the confidence?
My bedroom ceiling filled by my questions I can’t ask. Something better left unasked. But I still can hear the grudging on my ears. Woman!

I’m still trying to collect any cues that can bring a shocking-bright-light to shun my close eyes. Even life has its past. Everyone carry it on the back of their consciousness. It is the surge and urge to be loved. As I wrote this, I was ripped off by these words. I’m not sure I can put my name as the author of this writing because this piece has its soul. I was robbed from my fingers. Besides, it was this man that inspire me to write.

I miss his smile, I miss his face not a picture but a face with a pair of living eyes that can go through mine. I miss the face I never seen.

I have rejected him before he said a word. Yet, I miss him dearly. I can make a novel out of him. In the end I’ll know it’s all about me. He’s just a tool for me to write about myself.
I rejected him before I can hurt him. I was trying to help him from any broken he might have. I became over protected. I became his mother. I’m not. I don’t want mothered him.

Of all miserable people in this planet, we met. In the dimension where’s everything transferred super fast and password. The feeling was coded, transfer and decoded, how lovely. No need for face. I can create new identity, apply new emotion in it and I had cloning myself in two.

He might have severe ulcer but I also have my part of the same condition. I have let him entertain my feeling and how it’s grew out of proportion. As a teenage woman I want to be many things. I want to be model, to be pretty and slicky. The fact that my bones didn’t develop as I expected is disappointed.
I want to be a singer but my tone is too low that I barely hear my own voice. Then, I clung on time. Let it flow me in the current.

I still think of him. He made me wonder and curious. Two concepts I can’t resist. Two words I always follow until I get bored. I have no strategy in relationship, only the will to make it work.

It it’s not enough I just take it in circle. See if anyone would pick me up from the center.

I was his secret. I was his worthies diamond in the jewel box. Until I refuse and made juxtaposition. I’m a dolphin. Free is what I have to be. I don’t want to be prisoner of his heart.

With all the virtue in me, I wonder if my life is too-obsessively-normal. I questioned my ability to be a bad, bad girl. I keep looking if there’s anything in my brain that was extreme, hot and sensational in nature. I might as well try to get someone else’s husband and dump him after two hours together.

I promised myself not to be bothered by men.

Having relationship with him made me like a sinner in Quaker community who deserve a scarlet letter around my neck. I have made love with him through improper, indecent and filthy words. I done it over and over and I don’t regret it. If I were live in dark ages I’ll be sent into the brothel house. But maybe I’ll be in time to come to Seneca Falls and join the first women conference. In the present I’ll be nothing but woman with high-load passion.

If I were European woman, I’ll be fighting for suffrage. My agenda will be full of list of demand for woman rights. Although I don’t think suffrage will wash my sin away. I wonder if he ever feels the sin I am feeling.

I plug my ear off from the suffocating-scream of expectation. I’m still half-wonder and half-disbelieve of why am I still virgin with so many sex I’ve done. There were hands that have touched my breasts against my will. I have been half naked in front of girls. I have made love with women. I thought I might be raped but I wasn’t. I just didn’t know that it was sex.

So, one day I foolishly (finally I confess that sometimes I can be a fool) decide maybe I can believe this guy. Just this once. So my eyes are moist of tears. No, it’s not falling down on my cheek yet. Why should I hide my private emotion for so long? Is it my decision or just a silly woman instinct?

I’m not crying over him or the feeling I have. I’m crying over the possibility if my searching of true man will hold a future. I’m shedding this tears for my long-lived loneliness. By now, the tears have reached my chin, passed through my lips. I can taste the salt. Wish he could kiss my eyes with his lips. We can taste my tears together.

I can’t kill a love even if I wanted to, even if someone shoots me to death. It’s not like internet. I can’t disconnect it anytime. I can make it stop for a while or hide it under the rug. But it will live on. You just can’t see it because you suppress it. But it’s there.

This cyber-based feeling can go wild and nowhere but mere imagination. Man, I want to ride a rocket and propelled to outer space. There’ll be no walls or bounds. I won’t have to hide my sadness. I can’t fall, I can’t bump. I’ll be floating. I’ve been floating all my life.

My past is shady and grey but to let the box open is the choice I’ve made. Sometimes to live is to let go. Each time has its own wings. I can only say I’ve been there. I have had my renaissance, enlighten my hours and seconds.

I was still binding my old wound until he got online and found me in some corner of my restless tide. Don’t cry over me. Don’t wailed over my words. Right now, I just want to forget about him. To remember him is like brought back the dark cloud above my head. He reminds me of the past. Every man reminds me of those days. Just leave me in this time and moment and all the things that had been written. Erase my messages. They weren’t meant for anyone.

I’m a private creature who lurking for someone to belong. Still watching my pace and my shoulder for not bending too much over the harsh of reality.

The sun almost set. Does he know that?
Don’t worry, nothing’s broken. Nothing at all. I wish something is broken but no, nothing. It just when I met him I was trying to remember how it’s feel to feel the feeling. I remember it now.
He was right tough. We might hurt each other by meeting face to face. It might ruin the discourse and the meaning of true relationship. It might eliminate the feeling we need to feel. All these mights sound familiar isn’t it?

I looked far away to the ocean. I wish I were waves.
I wish we could be truly honest of our inner feeling. I wish there won’t be any lies lie between us. I wish we were not covering up the past. We stood on two different soil ground. Trying to be solid but failed.

He’s my new horizon. He adds new color to rainbow. This whole thing can turn into a nonsense if I mentioned his scent. I checked across the alphabet to find the letters to be put together in order to get one word with infinite meaning, to describe the pink and blue of my feeling. I almost jot it down before it flew out of my brain.

You know it’s love when you love a person and you can’t explain why.
16.3.03

My friend, can I ask you to one favor? That is to be quiet and read what I had to say.

Does all nonsense I wrote about love has make you sick now? Oh, I still have many. my lose story of course wasn’t as sad as Sanchai’s. I admire her. I admire anyone who had broken heart and stood tall and said that life goes on and never surrender looking for that four letters.

No one ever asked me to surrender looking for love unless of course him. A male figure with an ego instil in his blood. I wish I could make him disappear. But I save my wishes to latter day when I need it most.

I’m not a fairy who can make him a happy man. He can’t make sick all the time. I can’t own everything I dreamt. I can’t be his jewellery. I can’t be hidden identity.

Once I wanted to write an email to a guy that I got a crush on who turned out just got married. I jotted down what was in my head. I didn’t send it. I became restless. Why can’t I have the guts to send it? It’s a simple question that I keep wondering about. He was two years older and I thought he could understand my weariness.

I want to asked him of why he got married, how did he know that this woman is the one, how on the earth he can conquer all the doubts and how he answered all the questions he had. But then, I thought those are the questions I have to answer by living in it. Life will give me the answer. My life is an everlasting yearn.

I don’t even know why I wrote this to you. Maybe I do know but I’m too lazy or maybe too weak to look for it. Everywhere you hear love songs and they make you sleepy, too mellow. But often you have one particular song that can describe exactly your feeling. Every time you hear the song, every feeling any human know spinning and multiply in your heart.

I like my first love. It was love. Remember the feeling?
Remember the trembling? Uh, you probably think it was nothing. He might think the same thing. But it was something. We never watching movie together or walking hand in hand or eating together or kissing. Nothing exactly happen between us. Not even a side-glance or any kinky, teenage stuffs. But it was love. It always brings a thin smile to my lips. I wish he could see my smile. No, that is too much to wish.

I used to dream to be a prostitute. I like sex, I knew sex. The idea of getting paid for doing something that you like is terribly great. So what is keeping me? Well, my God, my Dien, interfere. With them around, life and love became beautiful and a real turn on.

First love, Utada Hikaru. I don’t think it was he who gets me into love but the love itself that come inside me and tickle the hair on my chest. O, yeah I wish he could see my chest.
Some says it’s about chemistry thing or timing or schmoozing. Folks, please no slang!

I should have written scientific materials but my mind gets twisted in the middle.

I want to tell him that philosophy can lead you to isolatory. I can lead him to the wildest fantasy. I can’t tell him.

That was the letter sent by my father. I don’t know what to say or think. Every feeling is stirred up inside me. Life is never been easy to anyone and that’s why you and I should enjoy and get through it all. It’s gonna be okay. Although I know that, sometimes I need to hear someone said it to me. Now and then every human can feel insecure.

I believe there’s a dragon inside me. Yes, a huge red dragon in me. It can produce a yellow and blue flame out of its mouth. It’s not personification or metaphor, it’s more about a believe, a confidence.

My father was worry to think that I might out of work. My job now has given a secure position but I know there’s plenty and bigger cheese waiting for me to grab. I’m not stupid to know that my job today provide me everything to live on my own, to be independent, to be out of the cage. But I want more, I need a stimulus, I want the future and my dream. I also know that I can’t have everything I dream but I won’t know it if I don’t try.

I want to do something that I like, I enjoy, where I can feel fulfilled, accepted, actualised and freely put my brain and heart into work. It won’t be easy and I’m expecting it will be easy. I know what I want and I’ll get what I want. It was my commitment and I respect it. I have a dream therefore I’m ready to fail. I’ll need someone to be by my side to picking up the pieces and I was expecting it would be him. I thought we both could undress our pride and shame. Then we could sew our own robes of pride that suit our figures, because we are the ones who knew our size. It’s not as easy as I said it. It’s not as easy as finding a suitable job either.

I wish I could ask him about his advice about my problem. I think I can.

Everyone trying to fill the emptiness, I’ll try to fill blank and unfinished sentence in my veins. I don’t want to join the paranoia. I am beautiful, I am smart and most of all I have my God, I have the unconditional love that a lot of people is craving about. But in certain times I realised that the unconditional from God is often come from another human. I realised God is the Mighty-Loving when God sent him to me.

I talked to him like I talked to my diary. I wrote my heart inside his heart. I was pouring my soul into his cup of mind. He took it fine and we both drank the joy and pain of becoming ourselves. I still have many stories I want and need to tell him. I miss his provocative response. The sudden and unconventional madness. The outburst of anger. All cursing words he always wrote in his sentence. I wonder if he knew that I like to laughing at his words.

It was a pleasure to have a soulmate. Then things happen and I guess life can be cruel sometimes. We are stopped drinking from the same fountain. I felt lost. Does he feel the same or am I the only one who give the spirit to this relationship? Does he miss me at all? Does he miss the doubt, the restless, the agony and the mesmerized thought of me? Or maybe because we feel the same feeling, they become insensible. I used to think we can be two crazy heads walking together on the earth. We are and still are.

Now, I pretending like I am doing fine. I am not at all. I have lost my living diary. I thought we’re going to same place, turned out we’re going to some place. I don’t know what more surprises that God and It’s masterplan has prepare for me.

Paiton, 13 April 2003

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