#coretanpendosa

I thought it had not been that long since words were always etched on my tongue, and there were always empty papers to tear with paper-cut thoughts, and empty spaces to fill with building blocks of poems that I stacked in alphabetical order like a toddler.

When did I miss it that this silence had been longer than my poems could ever tear through; that it had become an abyss of emptiness that my ink could never find the end of the page of. When did I miss it that I had no paper left to be written - or that I had left the ink bared to dry.

All that left were wordless thoughts and soundless voices; paperless books. It would have been nice to turn these pages and fold their edges; to press beautiful leaves between folio of words, left to die in the shade of autumn. It would have been nice to burn these papers with words.

When did I miss it that I had stopped writing?

_

Aku sangka tidak begitu lama sejak kata-kata selalu saja ada terlisan di atas lidahku, dan selalu saja ada kertas kosong untuk dirobek dengan fikiran yang setajam tepian kertas, dan ruang kosong untuk di isi dengan blok puisi yang aku susun dalam susunan alfabet seperti seorang anak kecil yang sedang bermain.

Sejak bilakah aku tidak menyedari bahawa bisuku ini sudah terlanjur berpanjangan mengalahkan puisiku yang tidak lagi dapat mengoyak menembusinya; bahawa telah ada kekosongan yang dakwatku tidak akan mampu menemui penghujung lembaran kekosongan ini. Bilakah aku terlepas pandang bahawa aku tidak lagi mempunyai kertas untuk ditulis - atau bahawa dakwatku sudah ditinggal kering.

Yang tinggal hanya fikiran tanpa kata-kata dan suara tanpa bunyi; sebuah buku tanpa lembaran. Alangkah bagus sekiranya dapat membuka setiap lembaran ini dan melipat hujung tepinya, menyimpan daun yang cantik untuk dibiar mati di antara permukaan lembar-lembar kata sehingga ia bertukar ke warna musim luruh. Alangkah bagus untuk membakar kertas-kertas ini dengan kata-kata.

Sejak bilakah aku tidak menyedari bahawa aku telah berhenti menulis?

HMK

Sedang hiatus - tanpa senghaja.

Once, the world was her judge. Whether to put bars around her and sentenced her in isolation, or hung her to her social death. The world could put cuffs on her hands just because of the way she dressed, the way she talked, the way she walked, the way she moved, the way she acted, the way she laughed, the way she... lived. She had learned that being herself could also be a crime, unless approved by the juris of the society to be otherwise. The world was on her side. Because, once upon a time, she was not an offender of the law when she freed her hair to her waist, and she was not held guilty for vandalism when she grafittied her face because it was the mask that everybody wore. Or when she wore her heart on her sleeves which, by the law, the shorter the better. No one cared about the heart. The trends were the law. And her insecurities were just her obidience to it. She never knew groups in society has their own social customs security. But eitherway, to feel accepted, she had learned to make fake passports just to pass through these social custom securities that had fed her insecurities even more. Or else she would be considered an illegal newcomer. Sentenced to be outcasted. Because it had always been about the right things. Like the right color, the right buy, the right pun, the right tweet, the right style, the right jeans, the right size, the right shape, the right filter, the right caption, the right parents, the right friends. Since when the magazines were the holy books? And her couselling sessions told her everybody was worth their true selves. That the society was a community that completed each other like a puzzle. But it had always been whether she was the right piece. Because she always had to break in silence to make her size and shape to fit in into the puzzle.

The world was on her side. But she never thought living free cost her so much she had to lose herself. She didn't know which was her face and which was the mask. Which was her, which was fake. Which was her heart, which was their part. Why did they have to have a share of her heart? Was this living free? Why did she feel there were bruises on her wrists where the cuffs had never been. She was not an offender of the law yet she never felt so shackled and imprisoned. That's when she decided to be free. Now she wears what the magazines never tell her to wear. And her first crime is wearing a hijab that covers to her waist. The world judges, and there are invisible bars that jailed her in isolation, a seperation from their acceptance. Then, she stops vandalising her face. Because no amount of color pigments in the world can help her with her insecurities. The trends of what are socially accepted may be the law, but her defiance is her confidence. The world judges, and apparently beauty is something they decide on, and a bare face can also be a crime. Her second crime; sentenced as an outcast. Third, she wears her Iman on her sleeves that covers, and as though she had commited a first-degree murder, she is a terrorist to the social environment; thus she is hung until her social death. But the cuffs on her wrists never felt so belonged. And she never felt so freed as the rope binds her neck; the world was her choking imprisonment. Her skin welcomes the bruises, because it is the only cost of her freedom. She is above the law. Where God is. Shaheed.

Tuhan tidak pernah membencimu. Dia tidak pernah jauh darimu. RahmatNya tidak pernah terputus untukmu.

Aku tahu, semestinya, kekosongan di dalam dadamu itu membunuhmu. Secara perlahan. Dan kau tidak menyedarinya. Sekarang, aku baru menyedarinya.

Aku masih dengar tangisanmu seraya kau rebah terbaring di atas lantai yang sejuk, kerana empukkan tilam itu terlalu manja untukmu… Kau perlukan lantai yang keras, kerana waktu itu kau benar-benar ingin mencari tempat untuk bertegak. Aku masih dapat rasakan esakan tangismu di dalam dadaku.

Jangan. Jangan kau sambung puisi bencimu terhadap hidup, yang kau coret di atas mejamu itu. Hidup tidak membencimu, hanya kerana ia tidak merelakan mati untukmu. Kasih Allah kepadamu, yang menghantar kau ke dunia. Ulanglah lagi ayat pertama surat ini. Bersabarlah, kau akan faham. Bahkan, kau akan faham melalui coretanmu sendiri. Bersabarlah dengan puisimu.

Aku masih terasa betapa kau keseorangan. Di satu sudut bilik, kau meratapi luka yang belum kau lakar di pergelangan tanganmu. Namun, darah semangat perjuanganmu sudah mengalir kehabisan. Yang tinggal hanyalah denyutan lemah, nadi fitrah. Kerananya, pisau itu masih tersimpan kemas. Bersyukurlah. Terbukti, kau tidak berseorangan. Waktu itu, dan juga kini. Tidakkah kau baca, ayat kedua surat ini? Bahkan, semangatmu akan hidup di dalam dakapan ukhuwah. Percayalah, walau kau belum faham apa itu ukhuwah.

Betapa bodohnya, ketika kau mendambakan ajal padahal kau hanya ingin diselamatkan. Kau ingin diselamatkan daripada kekeringan harapan. Bahkan, kau tidak tahu apa yang harus diharapkan. Asa, sudah mula terputus. Terkial-kial di tali gantung; apakah tujuan hidup? Dosa, dosa dan dosa? Kau akan sedar, yang kau harapkan adalah keselamatan daripada dosa. Bagimu, hidup bergelemang dosa tiada makna. Mengosongkan hati. Melemahkan nadi fitrah. Bukankah berputus asa atas RahmatNya adalah dosa yang besar? Saat itu akan datang; kau akan berhenti mengarang surat ‘terakhir’ di lembaran minda setiap kali tidur menjemputmu… Saat itulah, Allah telah menyambung asa di dadamu yang terputus. Denyutan hidayah akan menguatkan nadi fitrah…

Letakkanlah pisau itu, jangan kau bacakan lagi puisi tadi, usap air matamu. Segala kesakitan jahilliyah yang kau rasa, akan Allah ubatkan. Kerana…

ayat ke tiga surat ini.

http://coretanpendosa.tumblr.com Surat untuk dulu. 08122015

“And He found you lost and guided [you]” [Al-Quran 93:7]