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| Adultery (original cover) by Paulo Coelho |
After those long months, finally I got to read
Paulo Coelho’s Adultery. The
transliteration of the title in Bahasa is still bugging me (well, I insisted on
the opinion that since adultery means
much more than just a ‘Selingkuh’, they
should left the original title), but I really enjoyed the book.
And, well, my intuition does hit the place: Adultery surely grabs the second spot of
my favorite Paulo Coelho’s book (after The
Alchemist; and, by other means, make it ways past The Zahir which is now on its third).
I wonder when was the last time I cried so much
after reading a book.
What should I say? I mean, I am not yet 30,
haven’t yet married or got children, and haven’t even started pursuing my dream
career—on top at all; but, here I am, being struck by Linda’s (the main
character) feelings.
Yes. Yes, I could comprehend that awful
feelings—the unhappiness, emptiness, darkness—when your inside is being eaten
away and, yet, you’re alive—or worse, live your life normally. Just accepting
the fact that you are not okay is
already painful—because you had no reason to feel so!
I was Linda.
And it was hell.
I am just 24—and even younger when I experienced
it, but it was hard. Maniac-depressive, bipolar disorder, or simply despair—picks
your own. I struggle on my pride, and ended up need to accept that I do need help.
It is totally different than the story, though.
I am not even old enough to play with a word called ‘adultery’. Yet I could
understand Linda’s action.
“Sometimes you need to lose yourself completely to find yourself.”
I have just finished like half a book when I
went home and talked to my father (or rather, childishly explained how I
finally got that long awaited book). I also talked about the theme and how I
absorbed Linda’s feeling and perspective a bit too well.
We ended up talking for hours. About past
things, about recent days, and those abstract feelings. My father said that
there are two kinds of people in this world: those who act; and those who think.
You can’t choose becoming one, it choose you. There’s no overthinking for those
who think; and therefore, it is no
use to comprehend it.
“But I think.
I am thinking too much (that’s what people say!). Maybe I should stop reading
things and just try to live normally like other people.”
“I even try to adventure on my own when I was
young. I lived in jungle, isolated myself, and yet couldn’t stop myself from
thinking. Finally I realized that I belong to those who think. You do, too. And you need to accept that because it is also
something Allah blessed upon you.”
“… but I am afraid. They’re too scary.”
“One day you will reach the time where you can
really accept that fact. And, finally, you will be able to reach an ultimate
state of life—peacefulness. Those things
won’t no longer matter, and you find bliss for realizing what life means to Allah.
Even me myself, have not yet reach them.”
“Then what should I do now?”
“Live your own journey.”
The conversation ended up like that. And I
haven’t even finished the book.
By the time I reach the end of ‘Adultery’ next morning, I don’t even
realize I cried so much before my mother point it.
It was … too much. The feelings, I mean.
Linda fell into a trance when she flies with
parachute, embracing both the sky and everything, and her own heart. She wanted them to last forever.
But then the hawk said, “No. You can’t. If you
keep it, you won’t be able to live in this world.” Then Linda asked what she
should do.
The hawk answered, “Find your way.”
And Linda cried, for hours.
***
It has been to long since I cried this much because
of a book (what are you expect from someone who even cried when reading The Alchemist, The Zahir, or even Brida?).
Yet, I feel so … contented.
I mean, things are going around too many these
years. People, myself, my life—I wondered about so many things.
There are things I suddenly don’t want to do,
or become (even after those years of believing I will end up become one). There
are things which suddenly appear as options (like being told that I am suited
to be a researcher or lecturer so I should continue pursuing my degree overseas). There are also long forgotten things which
suddenly appear before my eyes (like how I do love design and art—books,
fashion, house, anything!).
Everyone but me seems moving forward to their
own respective choices, left me alone in this so-called crossroad.
No, I am not going to rush myself. I have been
done things people expect me to do since I can remember myself. Those, and yet,
things inside myself did not die—not at all. They keep haunting me, taking form
as fear, risk, passion, or even pride.
That’s why I choose to pause now.
I am now looking on the sky, on the beautiful things
around these long roads; I am hearing the gentle breezes, which had passed me unnoticeably
before; I am smelling the scent of flowers, trees, and even dusts; I am sensing
things.
And finally, I asked myself: where I stand now?
Where this road leads to? Where I want to live my life for?
It is such a complicated thing, isn’t it?
I read back my past entries, and laugh myself
while commenting: “Even someone like me do experience a passionate youth.”
Recently, I found a wonderful unofficial/fan book
of The Basketball Which Kuroko Plays written by gusari. It is an anthology.
There are two stories of a pair of characters. One titled 13 Centimeters,
while the other one titled Kizuato Spectrum.
Both of them are unmistakably the most
beautiful works I have read. Even until now, I cried every time I re-read them
(using Aimer’s Mine as a background song really lead me to tears).
What should I say? For me, 13 Centimeters is
really a piece of art.
Two people with a same feeling: youth, love,
and give up. There is nothing we could do—we will be separated anyway. So they
decide to live their days together until that separation comes. It comes
without even words. Yet, they cried after each other’s gone.
[…The distance to you is something I
don’t know anymore]
Kizuato Spectrum is an epilog, with a
subtitle of: ‘Re-measurement of Wounds’. Years passed and life goes on.
[Since then, we have,
little by little, grown older.
Our uncontrollable passions
stopped growing around the same time our heights did.
Our desires settled down.
We became a bit more well-rounded.
And in exchange,
everyone has become much kinder.
I think that is just
simply beautiful.]
Even though, those which left behind never
gone. By a simple glance of how there are people who are not giving things up,
those buried dream rose. Yet, there is nothing left to do; a past is a past.
[...I'm jealous.
I'm jealous of the old me,
who is still feeling the passion that I have long since lost.
It's not as though I regret anything.
The past choices I've made,
the changes that have happened, and the current me;
everything is special to me...
and very beautiful.
While I feel jealous,
it's not as if I blame anyone,
not even my past self.
It's not even that
the grass is greener on the other side.
It's just,
inside of me,
I know that I have scars that I'm holding on to.
Even so, under the scabs, the "memories" are there.
That body temperature, that scent, that voice.
Those "memories".
No matter how foolishly, delicately,
desperately, wretchedly, enjoyably,
I've grown up.
And even though I've become an adult,
these cicatrices remain.
They live under my scabs
as beautiful as ever.]
Indeed. They are as beautiful as ever.
That’s why life is so precious.
***
Anyway, time sure flies.
It has been two years since I last updated this
blog with something other than lyrics. I should write more :)
{home is where your heart is}
