Ruination and Its Deliverance

 

“The special quality of hell is to see everything clearly down to the last detail.”

― Yukio Mishima, The Temple of the Golden Pavilion

Like lotuses, my infatuation would merge from under the murkiness of my heart, the sting of my hate, and bloom above the surface. They were pristine, untouched by the ink of my sin. Like the delicacy of your fingertips, they went along with the time, like the lines of your palms, like the rythme of your name, they beat; spellbinding. They would go, far, above all humans and their restricted minds. To the place linked to the sky, the place among clouds, place where all the dainty hands embraced the ceasing lives. 

As the last luster of flickering star halted, as the last glimmer of infinity fell on the oblivion, as the lives decayed, the mortality of my veiled conscious of the crimson that tied the core of our intensities would continue living on; even as the hell extended its outstretched hand; even as my passion was mistaken as the greed; I would not move even as my skin, fresh were taken off me to expose the bareness of my heart that was prizoned between the ash white of my frail bones. 

For every curve of me was made to hold your face on it, for every inch of my finger was made to be entwined with yours, for the warmth of my breath that was made to be exchanged with yours, for my limbs meant to be intertwined with yours in the eternity rest; for half of me is you.

Eyelids Closed Peacefully Amongst the Flowers

 

 

 

A Dear of Dainty Hell

It was never for me that I fully existed; acted.

My being was something that would get stared, yet forgotten in the face that had too much prints from my love's stares in the fading night. My breath was something that would be expected, not something that would be taken a consideration how did it go with the air of inhaled life. The hell could burn as I reached for its claws, would my Mighty One save me as I was a sinner?

Fearful. If the thin rope that would let me fly to hell was cut, then it was what was supposed to. If so, even the red string of fate wouldn't be mine, if the One mankind believed in resented me, for half of me was my sin. Would the purity of any one's being be tainted by the misery of my guilt? Then, the way I let out my words, was carved every second by Eris. The way I would end, was in the hands of Poena. For how the butterfly danced upon my limbless soul, how the stares of ruination raining my eyes. The red, ricocheted tears. My lungs, filled by vengeance to the worships I've blindly done in the name of fear.

Was my deviation engulfed by the blanket of my dreads?

To be human is to believe,

Could my untamed mind, cry out the divinity prayers in my wake? For every word and prayers I've invoked, from the bottom of my lies, my malfeasance. Like a stray, I have run across everyone just to be answered, nothing heard, no one was heard. Just so anyone to know, every inch of me was tainted by the waif of my steps. For every inch of me was accompanied by its blue, wide sea. Once, was I asked whether to exist or not? Could, my One Only lend a hand to me, from the tides? The watered down carnation, or the needle inside of my brain. Or the target they placed on my forehead. Or was it I who did?

Could I be a believer? All the words I've lied soon after, all the kaleidoscope rays I've cursed, all the lives He had given me, what I've thrown? 

Fading as a Human

 

The Corpses Resided in my Heart

The ashes of my corpse should've been anchored far away in the flowing water. Yet, why is my carcass still mourning its ribs that were pulled away? My soul is trapped inside of my skull and tortured by the rays of disappointed sun that clawed on its roots. Through my blood hatred resided, yet it died. When I died, so did it. 

My lips were opened, yearning to mutter a farewell. But who was it to do what it wasn't allowed to? The words were caught in my dry throat, it had died. It was like standing in the fields of flower, in the blue of the spring, with my bones rotten and red flowers grew from the sockets of my eyes. My body was pitied but wasn't even burned. For, to whom my ashes would've come back? I’d hear the whisper of breeze that once kissed my warm face, when my heart was beating like the flapping of butterfly’s wings. It was blue, so was my youth. I was gonna grow wings, but I was already rotten. Who screamed? Whose voice haunted my cut ears? 

They went through the skin of my back, tearing it apart. They shedded my red blood as their tears. They took away the bones of my body for their delicate wings. Red as wine. They would drink it with a joyous screech from the hell. And I would be chained with my back torn and unflapping wings. A hand reached, going past the strings of red, pulling away the land where my loved ones resided. It was fed to the beasts, I was chained. Even the red flowers let my skull cry out with its crimson drops. And a butterfly flew through the air, kissing my forehead before my soul was put to an exile.

A faith was made for the human ones. It was fading, was I the devil? If to be a human is to believe, then, does one losing faith does not count as one? If the call from Place of Worship, if the ringing bell, that was pulling out the beliefs out of the core of my existence, will I be exiled? Or thrown out from the place in the sky that is connected through every whisper of worshippers, to the mud below the green earth?

If love truly what was deserved for every creation, then, why would everything end with misery in its roots?

Letter to..

Al beni yanına, sevgilim.

—Anıl Emre Daldal

My carnation, my star. Crawl inside of this body — find me where I'm the most ruined. Love me there. Just so you know, I would want you to reside eternally in there. I've gladly made a space for you in my ribs, my nails had dug to my flesh, they were wounded painfully. In a way, I need your touch just like how the torn skins need to be knitted together over the wounds. I need you to cover my heart that had been spilled on the land of your lovely palms. If not then, my star, can you pass your grasps into mine? Therefore, you will acknowledge that the dip of my neck and the curve of my palm are sculpted to hold your face in it. And your whispers had been worshiped by my ears, and my mind, there's a hollowness here, where my own voice feels foreign. Where a specific space only able to receive the slight breath of yours. My Capella, my eyes were made to adore yours, your eyes had met mine and unraveled me thread by thread, till I was left as a pile of poor bare bones. 

For half of me is you. Let our souls entwine together by the saintly red strings. Let our pinkies be intertwined together so that it'll draw out the red blood that is as red as the thread that I’d like to think still connects us, maybe in a wonder inside of my mind. Hear out what I need to say, I've been longing for the syllable of name to be breathed out from your lips. To have your wounds as mine. For half of me is you. My Capella.

As the way ash would become one with the air. I would rather merge my soul to yours than touch the bare of your palm. Even the greatest of people would've been died by the hands of love. Your palms were sculpted with a string that are shaped as the beautiful lines of you. Would it fit against mine? Would you grab my hand and pass me to the dreamless sleep I ever wanted? I would kiss your finger whenever you graze my skin. I know being able to shape my words would make me go rampage, I wouldn't know how to give an affection, it was barely given to my past. I wouldn't say I’d try for you. 

My star. My preservation from harm, ruin, loss. My deliverance from sin and its consequences. I had been deceived into believing that the stars had slept inside of your eyes, but I thought even the shine of your existence in my life was brighter than the reflection of the sun on a lake. Even more beautiful than a bunch of bright-colored flowers that danced in a garden. I hadn't seen the pair of eyes I longed for, yet I remember that they always managed to capture my own eyes into an oblivion of the thing they called deep affection. If I could, I would carve the words to describe the way your hair moved along with the wind, the way your glasses slightly moved down to the bridge of your nose as you leaned down, the way your eyes smiled as your lips did the same, the way your eyes would stare at mine like you yearned for them as well. The hope of having your heart homed in my palms had gone away with a tide. If I could, I would tell you how I considered your soul for the shine that lured an angel into flying right to you, making him fall from the sky, laughing. That your soul was beaming more than the way sunlight went through the brilliant kaleidoscope, kissing the ground where others had stepped in prayers. I can't deny that my feelings had gone deep. Yet I hadn't even breathed out the three syllables to potray it. It went beyond deeper than it. My Capella. It's you. It's you that I welcome death with. You are my last train stop. You are the one I'd like to share my umbrella with in the rain. You are the one I'd like to share my candy with. You are the one I'd like to be buried next to.

 If the stars demanded for my soul in exchange of the slight touch with you, I'd reach out in a heartbeat.

The Spring is Blue (so is my youth)

 "I knew that teenagers sparkled. I knew they knew something children didn't know, and adults ended up forgetting."

—Lorde

Ever since I was a kid, I always thought that the spring was blue, light blue with the breeze that was scented by sun, with the laughters that adorned it. Sometimes I zoned out thinking about being a teenager. Like in the cartoons I watched. Like on the books that my mom bought for me. They had always potrayed teenager phase as an amazing thing that shaped us. That it sparkled like the glitters I used to always buy whenever I went with my parents to get my new stationery. 

And now I often think being a teenager is like running, barefoot, along the shore. While the sun is leaving, with the waves gliding. And the laughters of the people whom I love (that will never be enough). It's like the spring. It's blue. Blue like the sky, myosotis, blue raspberry popsicle. It feels like touching the white foams that were brought by the ocean. It smells like the raw scent of sea. Blue is different when I am just a teen who loves my life. It's light. It's nice. It's joy. 

I can't help but think that life is too short for me to feel and see everything as my teenage self that still won't forget what is it like to laugh with my friends till everything fades away in the background. Time passes quickly. I know where I am with. I am hysterical and useless. But I know that one day I'm going to sit in front of the grave of my memory. Watering it down with the rain from my one and only light in the blue spring. They look like the only things that keep my sanity up. Everything else is just a mere made-ups in my mind. They're the only ones my eyes were made to stare at. 

It's like seeing the sun get chased away by the night. The last bit of its light is lent to the moon. The sea isn't blue. The shine isn't reflected like I want. It's orange. It means I'm going to part from all of this thing. The only thing that looks real for me. 

White Foams of Waves Embraced Me

 

"To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering."

—Friedrich Nietzsche

The sounds of the crashing waves were blocking the scream of the voices. Like a white noise that cradled my rotting heart, the heart that was pulled out of my ribcage. 

I was not living, I was simply existing.

Emotions and feelings were things that shaped humans. Joy, sorrow, or resentment. We were made to feel. Why was our heart placed right inside of the ribcage? Why? Because it was too fragile and soft. Easily broken. Like a butterfly that would be crushed the second we stepped on it. Delicate. Humans held onto the word 'Love' tightly. Like a lifeline. 

Yet they still wouldn't leave when their hearts were torn forcefully from their weal—easily broken ribcages. Humans can be the frailest of them all, or rather, the ferocious ones of them all. Each one of them grabbed onto the thinnest string of promises ever known to naked eyes. Yet their eyes were blinded by hands of what they called 'affection'. The hands that clawed into their once gleaming eyes. Pulling them out in the name of Love. Humans can be the brainy ones, or rather, the pitiful ones. 

I was standing at a beach that I made up in my mind. There were many papers laying on the white pristine sand, joined by the glass shards. Each paper had its own words. My hand reached for one⁠—a light interrupted me. It cut off my one and only access to my past. As if letting me know that I shouldn't mourn upon what had passed.

Yet I couldn't forget any second from those moments where I actually lived. Not just existing. To live, then I must feel. It meant, I should suffer as well. But how foolish of me, to choose the way I die for nostalgia.

Human lives with the constant feeling of pain inside of their hearts. Their hearts are sensitive it makes living difficult. To be carefully loved so that we won't be accidentally broken by a slight touch, truly a privilege. To be shaped by the things they called love would be a pleasure, knowing to live.

Humans are delicate, but their feelings shaped them. Their hearts are enveloped by their frail bones. So that it won't scar easily. The pain from the open wounds.

But mortals were obsessed with torturing their own selves because of the word 'love'. That's just humans. Nostalgia will be the death of them. Each piece of past will go through their heads. Humans are sailors, and the sea is their memories. 

Nothing can capture the right way humans see something through their own eyes. Fireworks. Strolling around with their kimds. Laughing till they forget what's wrong. Humans had their own youths where the spring felt so blue. Light blue like the sky. A tide could wrap its claws around their hand, dragging them down to the seabed, and their minds would play trick to show them their best 7 minutes of lives. Passing their minds as their souls were pulled out, slowly but surely. 

When the night was full of terrors from their memory, tears would fill their gazes. The scariest thing is that—time will always pass no matter what. So humans live for feelings. Love and suffer. Yet they need to find the meaning of their lives. What could possibly happen when they let go of their nagging minds? 

Humans are stubborn, I am a human, so I am as well stubborn. I can't let the fragment of my past slip through my fingers. I need to hold on tight. No matter how much it's hurting me. I needed to find the meaning in my life, and memory is the reason I was made. I am a human. I am made to feel. Joy, sorrow, or resentment. Nostalgia will be the death of me. But it's fine, as long as I'll die with 7 minutes of the happiest flakes of my life buried next to my rotting corse. At least the flowers in the spring will be the scent of my demise. So I closed my eyes—

The ocean was so blue. The sky was infinitely blue. And I saw the three years of my blue youth, flashing through my ceasing mind.

My Journey in 3 Years

Pengalamanku di Lab Komputer 

Selama Tiga Tahun

Pengalaman saya di Lab Komputer selama kelas 7 hingga kelas 9 sungguh menarik. 

Saya sangat ingat, setiap satu kali dalam seminggu, saya dan teman-teman akan belajar menggunakan teknologi dan aplikasi komputer, dan juga pergi ke Lab Komputer di sekolah. 

Kami juga belajar dari buku paket yang kami dapat. Buku ini memudahkan saya memahami dasar-dasar komputer, mulai dari pemrograman sederhana hingga keterampilan praktis seperti pengolahan data dan presentasi. Selain materi yang diajarkan, suasana di Lab Komputer sangat mendukung, dengan fasilitas lengkap yang membuat proses belajar lebih interaktif dan menyenangkan. Perjalanan ini tidak hanya memperluas pengetahuan teknologi saya, tetapi juga membantu membentuk kemampuan berpikir kritis dan problem-solving yang sangat berguna.