…shatterred….

let me tell you something:

no one is going to look at you, broken and shattered
and think –
damn, you are beautiful.

no one is going to come pick up your broken pieces off the floor and
assemble them into a beautiful whole.

hell,
you won’t even look at yourself and think –
I made broken look beautiful.

you know why?

because all those writers lied to you.

yes,
all those with their poems of scraped knuckles and
blood dripping down chins,
pomegranate songs and loves that ripped through you like
hurricanes.

liars.

so you and i,
we are going to make a plan.

you are not going to romanticize days when your brain tells you to smash that mirror,
you are not going to romanticize the lover who doesn’t understand you
but still writes about you.

here is what you are going to romanticize instead:

you are going to romanticize the first day of spring,
its gentle hands all over your body,
lifting you up until you are as light as a feather.

you are going to romanticize the tea and honey kind of love,
no hurricanes,
but sunshine that builds you up from within,
that helps you make it through the worst days.

you are going to romanticize gentle hands of a friend
in yours,
telling you that it is going to be okay.

because it is.

and don’t trust poets,
we’re no good,
we love pretending that our jagged edges tantamount to a beautiful disaster,

but in reality –
there ain’t nothing beautiful about shaky hands holding a cigarette and
empty eyes staring at the cracks in the walls.

you know what is beautiful, instead?

the days when you can look at yourself in the mirror and smile,
scars and all.

music that makes your soul flow like a river,
books that offer comfort,
families flocking together like overgrown birds to keep you safe and warm,
friends that give you strength when you can find none,
lovers who make you laugh through tears.

baby,
from now on
you are going to romanticize healing;

honey dripping down your fingertips,
August nights that stick to your skin,
the day you find your purpose,
long car rides and singing so loud that no one can shut you up now.

bad news:
no one is coming to save you.

good news:
you can save yourself.

― Lana Rafaela (via wnq-writers )

Setitik Embun Pencerah

Ku tatap lagi selembar kain putih yang tergeletak begitu saja di hadapanku. Ku tatap kain itu lekat- lekat. Kain itu hanyalah kain biasa. Sedikit lusuh dan murahan saat ku perhatikan kainnya yang kasar. Hanya dengan selembar uang sepuluh ribuan kau dapat membelinya di pasar tradisional terdekat. Malah kau bisa mendapat kembalian beberapa ribu bila kau beruntung dan pandai menawar.

Namun tetap saja mataku tak bisa lepas memandangnya. Aku bergeming di tempat ku berdiri. Ku rasakan pandangan mataku kabur. Aku pun mengerjap. Lalu . . . tes . . . Sebutir air mataku jatuh di pipiku.

Kuberjalan kain lusuh itu. Seluruh tubuhku bergetar hebat hingga nyaris aku tak bisa menginjakan kaki dengan mantap di bumi. Bukan karena ku takut. Bukan karena ku ngeri. Bukan. Namun karena ku rasakan aliran pemahaman yang begitu hebat mengalun di kalbuku. Ku rasakan kesadaran yang begitu akbar merasuki jiwaku.

Tanganku perlahan terulur menggapai kain lusuh itu. Dan aku semakin yakin. Meski ku tahu aku masih meraba di kegelapan. Meski ku tahu aku masih tertatih dalam kelelahan. Samar kulihat setitik cahaya berada tepat di depan jalan tempat ku kini menuju. Ya. Aku yakin aku selangkah lagi lebih maju menuju kebenaran itu.

*       *      *

“  Sudah berapa kali ku bilang !! Kau tak perlu ikut campur urusanku !!”

“ Tapi Mas, aku istri Mas ! Bagaimanapun juga aku perlu tahu kemana Mas pergi. Katakan Mas, kemana Mas mau pergi ? “

“ Kau tak perlu tahu itu semua ! Dengar, sebagai istri yang baik yang perlu kau lakukan adalah diam di rumah, urus anak dan lakukan pekerjaan rumahmu dengan baik! Hanya itu! “

“ Tapi Mas . . .”