Silhouetted
2.1 In a City That Never Was
RAYA
“Where is my lover? Where's my lover?”
There was a voice asking, calling from within the heart. There was a Kingdom in his room facing the window staring at the sky. The sky was so dark, even though the night was still too early. The sky was still red this afternoon. Someone said, the sky is golden, but Raya thinks red is red. Red is not golden and cannot be golden.
Suddenly the house felt empty. There is no sound anymore. His mother, who used to exist, is now sound in the middle room. Stay Raya. Uneasily. Wetter.
Maybe his eyes are red now, but not sleepy or crying. Raya felt her eyes ache, probably blown by the dusty wind. I don't know, he's been pecking at the window for a long time. Look at the sky and the air. Feeling the caress of the wind that became cold, [1] said something like that
“Where's my lover? Where's my lover?”
Raya doesn't know either. Where her boyfriend went. It's been two days that the violin's been dead. No tone came out. Or if it comes out, it is nothing more than an uncomfortable squeak in the resonance hole.
Indeed, some have said that mood affects the pure tones that come out of the strings. But Raya never thought it would be this bad. His imagination was gone, his finger was stiff, his violin was frozen. I don't know what's up
So there is nothing Raya is used to doing except letting her fingers tighten together behind the folds of warmer armpits, with a shriveled shoulder drives away the frost accompanied by a cup of warm brown milk with a sparkle of light on the edge of the cup, which silently reflects the steam that breaks the cold wall.[2]
It turns out that wasn't enough. Raya then stepped outside the room, looked at her slumbering mother on the sofa. The old woman's forehead was frowned upon, she didn't wake up, just moved a little. Maybe he was dreaming about youth.
Then Raya stepped outside the house. The swing of the door made the wind slightly in, turned again his head towards the sofa, his mother was still slumbering. “My book, asleep in sobbing!”[3]
Now he was on the road, finding himself measuring the path. The night is still early, maybe seven or half an hour later. Raya never wore a clock, but she had one—birthday gift from her mother—because according to her unshackled hand nothing felt freer.
He kept stepping. While humming. Ogre. Thin. Purposeless. Just follow the soles of the feet, and penetrate the night on the sidewalk that shines because of the street lights.
From any point on the foot, it looks like the city is moving on its own. Colored neon, traffic lights, chandeliers. The glow. Colour. Assertively. Vaguer. Accompany the steps that are hasty or that are dragged spoiled.
Raya smiled. Since childhood he was in this city and always waded through the sidewalks, also passing the signs. But until now he had never been able to truly recognize his city. They move like they refuse to be known. Too quickly gather new faces or breaths, and discard the worn ones.
Ah, sometimes Raya thinks maybe she also includes a worn face that has been wasted. Sometimes she was sad when she thought that, she wanted to cry in the middle of the night, on the sidewalk, in the middle of the city that might have thrown her away.
But reality says he is still here, and the air he breathes is still delivering fragrance (smell?) that same. The night is still too early to be wept with tears, but we never really know how many tears are spilling in this air.
Now he ran across the street with his armour in red. Almost yellow. Then soon the sound of the vehicle roared. Hunted. Raised his head, he felt swallowed by a strange but pleasant estrangement. It feels good to be in your own city, even though it may be unrecognizable.
Raya kept stepping past the stop.
A lot of people there. Most of them go home from work. Womens. Men's. Espousal. Satchel. City bus. Wall streak. Roof leaking. Skies. Yes, the building's glass displays a dark sky color, partially reflecting back moving neon, extinguished neon. There's neon flowers, bowling, billiards, cars…
The love...
There was a color on each of his bursts and a fall back on their eyeballs that were at each stop.
I
I shrugged my shoulders. “Now, I'm too busy for sightseeing.”
Slowly he nodded then fixed his veil. I looked at her from the side and I still wonder about her figure. Where do I know this woman?
While outside the rain is still falling, even this time it is getting heavier, now what time? I don't have a watch, and I see this woman doesn't wear a watch. Or is he wearing but covered in his long-handed clothes? I was lazy to ask. Because I know some people who are angry when asked, upset if disturbed by trivial sentences when they are resting or contemplating something.
But for this one, I have to ask. “What we have met before?”
“And I told you, ever, I see you often!”
Sometimes I think, what does a meeting mean? But there's never been an answer to it.
“Ser often?”
“Actually rare.”
“But why are we close now?”
“Because we are indeed close.”
“Away but close?”
“Maybe, closer than nearby close..”.
“Well!”
Meeting, meeting, what does meeting mean? Why should there also be a meeting if later it will be separated as well? Huf, I remember that old song that I also forgot who sang it. Anyway the song talks about separation after the meeting. Or indeed the separation and meeting is not questionable anymore because everyone will certainly or has been or is experiencing?
I was going to sleep but I heard her voice jerking
“Hey, it's raining like this!”
_______________________
[1] Suddenly it comes to mind one of the lines of poetry read by Nicholas Saputra in the film GIE
[2] Sentence “...letting his fingers tighten together behind the folds of warmer armpits, with shriveled shoulders driving away the frost accompanied by a cup of warm brown milk with a glint of light on the edges of his cup, which silently puffed the steam that broke the cold walls.” Inspired from one of the Izzatul Jannah short story paragraphs titled “Window Lukas” but there the drink is coffee, not chocolate milk.
[3] Chairil Anwar, rhyme “A Kamar” second verse
