Lembar Duabelas: Adultery and Spectrum

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}