ini prosa kali ya? monolog? also in english

Kalo lo bisa nebak prosa/monolog/rambling ini tentang apa, next time we meet, I’m gonna kiss your face. Suwer.

Alma, matters

You were always just there
On endless papers, alive on pretty abc’s,
Out of my mind
    (and maybe theirs)
I was inside of you (they probably never were)
For quite awhile and I
Was quite keen to get out
    Was I wrong, Alma?
I wasn’t wrong,
Look what I did to
You for a while
And I’m sorry,
    I really am, for
You’re always just there,
As you should be (for as long as I will always be),
Waiting,
Knowing—patiently that
You
And I?
We matter
We do
    Together

    First of all, she wasn’t my anything. She poised just like a newly formed mole around your mouth that popped out of nowhere after you stayed in one particular place with its particular weather for quite some time. Say, four and a half years. Because you made a bad decision, got lost, and it took a while to get back on track again. And suddenly, she’s there, on the left corner of your top lip. But that’s not the point. Or maybe it is? Because now that you think about it, those extra, unnecessary days had worn you out you were way too keen to leave her behind. Remember those bleak hours when you got stuck in your head, when voices were screaming at you to book the first flight the next morning back to where you began. Was it hatred you felt towards her? Hate is a strong word. I can never hate her, I know that for sure. She’s lovely, Alma. Different.

    ***

    My cousin introduced us. She was older than me, and so was Alma. When I said she’s different, Alma, that is, I meant it. Alma was already well-known among others for her humble beauty and superior brain and in spite of her rich background, she possessed an ability to blend in with the crowd and she never was conceited about it, unlike me, who was young and confused because everything was so new and although not quite overwhelming, like everyone had assumed, but it was close to make me lose track like I told you before.

    Alma was always just there. I never paid her attention, to be completely honest. I was probably only one among her other million admirers. Hell. I didn’t even admire her. I just had the opportunity. And they say you’re gonna miss her when she’s gone, only the irony is that she’s not going anywhere, it was me who left her, remember?

   

    ***

    So, I left.

    Can’t blame the revulsion I felt for her back then. It already happened, I can’t change anything. I didn’t hate her, but I’ve had enough of her. Of her kindness and vast knowledge. Of her blinding sight and how she made me feel alone. Of her hot and cold and her—my—our friends. I’ve had enough, and it was time for me to leave anyway.

   

    ***

   

    “Alma? Wow, okay,” they often say when I admit I was with her. “Okay, wow.”

    It takes me a couple of their, my new acquaintances who have never met you, awed exclamations to realize that you’re the only one, Alma, you will always be the only one with me because they never got the opportunity. You matter, Alma, please forgive me. It was never your fault, Alma, it was mine, you’re always you with your humble beauty and your superior brain and maybe I was only bitter because why couldn’t I be myself without you? If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be me, I get it now, Alma, I’m so sorry. Look at me now. I love you, I do.

THE END