Pada mulanya adalah mitos. Lalu lahirlah peradaban. Namun mitos bukan hanya pencipta peradaban. Mitos mengenai apokaliptis tidak hanya ada dalam tradisi kuno tapi juga hadir dalam agama-agama yang masih hidup di abad modern. Logika kosmologinya terdiri dari dua hal sederhana yakni penciptaan dan penghancuran. Itulah sebabnya dalam tradisi kuno dewa-dewa dianggap sebagai pencipta sekaligus penghancur, yang dianggap sudah menjadi haikikat para dewa. Dan instrumen penghancur dianggap sebagai “yang suci”, hal ini menjelaskan mengapa ada dewa air, dewa api, dll. Bangsa Kreta memuja Banteng yang di-asosiasikan pada gempa bumi yang mengguncang pulau Kreta; Nergal, dewa bangsa Sumeria digambarkan sebagai sosok yang memiliki kekuatan badai. Kitab apokalitik, dalam bahasa Yunani tidak hanya ditafsir sebagai kitab tentang hari Kiamat tapi juga sebagai wahyu. Ada relasi antara penghancuran dan hadirnya wahyu.

Apakah ada kaitan antara aspek destruktif manusia dalam sejarah dengan mitos-mitos yang bersifat apokaliptis? kemungkinan besar iya, karena manusia selalu berupaya menghubungkan apa yang sakral dengan dunia aktual. Ritual “Penghancuran” dikaitkan dengan ritual keabadian, penyucian, pengudusan. pemurnian, pemulihan. dst.

Di hadapan sejarah, mitos apokaliptik dengan lantang mengungkapkan: “Akulah yang awal dan yang akhir”



Wendy Darling believed in fairies all her life.

This was based in kindness, not faith. It was a fearful thing. Sometimes she woke in the middle of the night panicked at the thought she might stop one day. What a world, to place the life of even as flawed a person as a Tinkerbell in the hands of child’s ability to believe.

Coming back, Wendy expected to miss the magic, the beauty, the feel of the wind in her unpinned hair. She expected to miss Peter, and she did. But she didn’t expect to miss the_ exhausting task of being the Lost Boy’s young mother.

And she didn’t miss it, not exactly. Wendy missed being useful, and she missed being listened to.

But she told her brothers stories, at night, still. She watched the light grow in their eyes and felt powerful for the first time since Neverland.

Michael came home from school crying one day. A boy on the playground had said fairies were stupid and fake. The teachers thought it was exhaustion or the disappointed hopes of a child who still believed his big sister’s bedtime stories. When father laughed at him at table, John hesitated for a moment and then joined in. Wendy pled an upset stomach and fled to her room.

Michael had nightmares for a week of a shining tiny person breathing their last on a Neverland forest floor.

Shaken awake in her own room, Wendy padded down the hall and creaked open his door. She gathered her smallest brother in her arms and said, “We’ll believe enough for all of them, every one. You and me, Michael, we’ll save them all.”

In the other bed John, pretending to sleep, squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted so badly to be grown.

His father had always told them true men protected people who needed it. John sat up. “I do believe in fairies,” he said, and his siblings chorused, “I do, I do.” Michael stopped crying. John started.

Wendy often asked herself why they had come back. The question surfaced over particularly tedious chores, or when her father came home drawn after a long day and picked apart her every flaw over the blandest supper Wendy’d ever tasted. But it surfaced also when she was happy, fetching sweets from the dime store, when Michael raced through the halls, hollering, an old shirt hoisted on a broom as a conquering flag.

Once, she had known how to fly. She remembered and it ached.
They tried to settle back in, all three of them, to shake lost boys and pirates from their heads. A year after leaving Neverland, Wendy’s mother asked why Wendy never brought nice girls home to play with. It took effort not to laugh.

Wendy didn’t say, “Nice girls? Tink tried to get the Lost Boys to shoot me out of the sky, tried to blow up her own home on the off chance she might get me, too.”

She didn’t tell her, “The mermaids would have liked to drown me, too, babbling away in those dolphin sounds that Peter could understand but that just gave me shivers.”

“All I want to be is a mother,” Wendy said instead, and meant, all I want is to be of use, to have people need me as much as they did. I want someone to believe my stories as much as Peter did.

She didn’t say, “And what could those girls offer me? I fought pirates. I touched the very stars.”

“I have all the friends I need in John and Michael,” Wendy offered. At mother’s frown, she added, “I’ll try harder.”

She joined a club against her own wishes. The club girls talked about dresses and Wendy thought about swords and crocodiles.

Wendy thought, these silly young things never heard that tick tock and shaken in their boots. They’ve never seen the stars up close.

They talked longingly of their mothers’ lipstick, of debutantes and growing up, and Wendy thought, How many fairies have you killed?

The years rolled on. Wendy fell in love with boys who needed her, who fascinated her, a long line of sharp-boned muses who forgot to eat their vegetables for weeks.

These boys only knew one kind of woman. They expected mothers, all of them, women childless or not, beautiful women with strength and graces pressed into their souls. If they had ever found Wendy crying over a thimble, they would not have known what to do with this alien fragile thing.

So they did not find her so. Wendy Darling was well versed in being the thing people needed her to be. Even to the most magical place she knew, Wendy had been brought for one reason. Peter’s boys had needed a mother

That thought sat rancid in her stomach for days, but then she remembered: Peter had lingered at her window all those nights not because he needed soup or love or tucking in. He had loved her stories.

She had taken the wild boy, the lost bird, the starcatcher, and had stolen his breath away with words of her own making. On the other side of years and years, Wendy caught her own breath.

She started carrying a thimble in her pocket. When Wendy felt powerless, like a thing and not a person, she slipped a finger against the chill shape. It was a slip of puckered metal, an odd knick knack of women’s work. But once, Wendy had named it something else, given it power.

Boys boasted around her, of jumping fences and wrestling, of stealing kisses. Wendy thought, you think you know the power of a kiss? I once defeated death with a thimble, because I gave it a name. I believed. Words are power, and the words are mine.

One day, someone did find her crying. Wendy was in the girl’s lavatory. It had been a little thing, John snapping at her over breakfast, and then some boy in the yard saying something careless. Wendy had thought, I once knew how to fly, and suddenly everything seemed too dirty and too confining to stand. She hid in the furthest stall from the door, and cried angrily about every speck of magic she had lost in her life.

There was a light knock on the door and some wispy little thing from the club Wendy’d been calling her penance peeked in

“My grandma died last year,” the girl said. “I was crying in the next stall over.” The girl sat up on the edge of the sink and said, “Do you want to hear a story about her?”

At the next club meeting, Wendy listened. A grinning redhead always used the past tense when she spoke of her father. Another girl, wan, flinched at loud sounds. They knew the sound of the ticking clock, these young women, some of them better than she ever had. Wendy had walked away from one beautiful world and into another. They had lost one, or many; or wished they could fly away the way she had gotten to, once.

Wendy stopped crying in bathrooms, mostly. She started checking them, quietly, and offering shoulders and stories of a magical land to the people she found there.

Wendy listened. One of the club girls was obsessed with trains, the way they take you away, the way they come back on schedule, the sound of them. Wendy asked, and she listened. A young woman whose hands folded in her lap like a wayward haystack stared out the window, entranced by a world only she could see.

Wendy thought, you’ve never seen the stars up close. She thought, maybe I can show you.

She dragged them all out one night, late, when they were out in the country for a school trip. They snuck out of their lodgings and got in terrible trouble for it, but that night the moon was missing and the sky was dusted with more blazing stars than they had ever seen, except for Wendy.

None of them but one odd duck knew the boys’ parts, but they did their best to dance there beneath them, to pretend they could catch starlight on their outstretched tongues.

Wendy wondered what the mermaids would have said, if she had ever learned their tongue. She wondered what stories Tinkerbell could have told her. She wondered if Tiger Lily would have taught her how to dance.

She wondered why none of the women in Neverland had been able to speak to her. She wondered why she hadn’t tried.

Michael sprouted inches and inches, his voice dropping to an alien depth. He stopped planting broomsticks tied with old red shirts on the dining room table and declaring the room claimed for Neverland.

Michael buried himself in books instead, as though that might be a way out. He started scribbling in journals, for all John teased him about it. Wendy was sure that those messy lines were not all poetry about the chin of the girl down the street, sure some of them were the adventures Michael was having still, somewhere inside. She was sure. She hoped with every ounce of herself, hoped like it was the kind of faith that makes children fly.

John buried himself in books, too, but all his joy in it was wrapped up in how they helped him win: win grades, and commendations, pats on the shoulders from their learned teachers, their father’s nod at supper. Wendy’s father had always terrified her, his hooked rage, the way he ran from meeting to appointment, pursued by the tick of the clock on his heels.

John joined debate, cricket, an honors society or two, a young businessmen’s club for boys.Wendy told him once, in a quiet moment alone, that she could hear the tick tock at his heels, too, these days.

John squeezed her hand. “Me, too, but it’s okay Wendy. C’mon, I always wanted to be a pirate.” He squeezed her hand again. “I’ll be better than he ever was, Wendy. I’ll be good.”

In their nursery room games, years ago now, John had always played Hook. Michael had played Peter.

Wendy had always been the narrator, the storyteller, the minstrel. She thought she rather liked it that way.

Wendy grew into a young woman. She went out dancing with her friends, whispered a pretend background for every eligible young bachelor who watched them, and listened to her friends’ laughter make those stories true.

They talked about dresses over light lunches, about boys and babies, about industrialism and pollution, about Plato and Darwin, the epiphanies and practicalities of falling in love. They talked Eleanor, the wispy girl from the bathroom, through her parents’ disappointment as she pursued a life as a legal secretary. Wendy dictated stories to give Ellie something interesting to practice on.

Another friend taught Wendy how to crochet. They made piles of socks for a charity drive, meeting up in the afternoons to sit in a sunlit window and crochet and talk the light away.

Wendy ran her hands over the heaps of warm socks when they were done. She was a girl who believed in magic, and this took her breath away, how patterns and patience could lead to this, could build something so good and solid.

No child ever grows up. They grow out. They grow down and deep, textured and heavy. They grow.

One day, decades later, Peter lighted on her old windowsill, chasing down a runaway shadow.

He thought she was her daughter. Wendy watched Jane stare up at this fey creature. Wendy could feel the weight of all the years between her daughter’s anxious gawky adolescent age and her own taller years, the backaches and the tragedy, the things her hands had built. Peter would never know them. Wendy wanted to weep as hard as she once had, at fifteen, over a thimble.

Wendy went downstairs, made a bag of sandwiches that she put in a backpack with some sturdy clothes and a pair of good shoes. Her daughter would not be going on any adventures clad only in a nightgown.

When she got back, Jane was flying. Wendy’s heart was breaking, was singing, was soaring. Peter was laughing. His shadow was watching her. It knew more than it told and always had.

Wendy pulled her daughter back to earth. She gave Jane the backpack and said, “You be brave. You be good. Remember to talk to the mermaids. Ask them to sing to you. Tell them your stories.”



Cinta itu seperti gravitasi.
Sebuah manifestasi energi yang memiliki keindahan yang agung tetapi juga bisa bersifat destruktif.
Seperti halnya gravitasi yang selalu menarik kita ke pangkuan bumi setiap kali kita mencoba untuk melempar diri ke langit, cinta akan menarik seseorang agar tidak bisa lepas dari orang lain meskipun ia berulang kali pergi dari orang itu.
Tapi disatu sisi, reaksi kimia yang satu ini bukan sesuatu yang dapat kamu kontrol dan prediksi.
Seperti lubang hitam, bisa saja cinta adalah gravitasi dan kehampaan dalam satu wujud yang sama.

Ketika kamu merangkak ke dalamnya, kamu akan berputar dan hilang ditelan oleh intensitas yang tidak kamu tau seberapa jauh untuk sampai ke ujungnya.

Dan kali ini aku tertarik oleh sesuatu yang substansial di dalam dirimu.
Tersesap semudah butiran pasir yang menyelusup lalu menyatu dengan pantai, aku tidak mau melawan ketika kamu menarikku masuk ke dalam misteri semesta tak berujung.

Atau bahkan jika mungkin kamu memutuskan untuk jadi tempat berpijakku yang solid.



Ini kisah sedih.
Balerina di dalam kotak musik kecilnya ingin bunuh diri,
Lelah ia akan hidupnya yang ditakdirkan untuk bergerak dalam tarian yang monoton dan prediktif.
Semula dipikirnya Sisifus orang paling sial di muka bumi,
Tapi ternyata figur plastiknya yang cantik dikutuk terus menari mengikuti alunan musik yang repetitif. – Melisa



Aku adalah kontradiksi.
Aku hampir tidak pernah benar-benar serius dalam suatu hal, tapi juga terlalu serius.
Aku kejam dan berdarah dingin, tapi juga sensitif.
Aku memakai logika, tapi juga bertindak impulsif.
Aku ingin bahagia, tapi selalu memikirkan hal yang menyedihkan.

Aku pesimis, tetapi ambisius.

Aku benci diriku sendiri, tapi juga menyukainya.

Aku terlalu idealis, tapi juga sangat realistis.

Aku bilang tidak peduli, tapi nyatanya aku memikirkannya.

Aku sangat menikmati kesendirian, tapi juga merasa kosong dan kesepian.

Aku tenang, tetapi kacau.

Aku haus perhatian, tapi aku menolak diberi perhatian.

Aku benci semua orang, tapi juga memiliki kasih pada setiapnya.

Aku ingin membangun koneksi mendalam, tapi selalu merasa terpisah dari dunia.

Aku lega bahwa aku hanya sebutir debu yang mudah terlupakan, tapi juga ingin dianggap ada.

Aku terlalu dalam, tapi juga terlalu dangkal.

Aku bisa ditebak dalam tidak tertebaknya aku.

Aku hidup, tapi aku mati.

Pikiranku berantakan.

Otakku adalah medan tempur.


Seperti halnya benda-benda material yang lucunya disusun oleh sesuatu yang non-material.

Seperti oksigen yang menyokong kehidupan, tapi juga menyebabkan kemerosotan keberadaannya.

Seperti ironisnya kebebasan manusia untuk memilih, tapi juga tidak bebas dari konsekwensi pilihannya.

Seperti alam semesta yang selalu mengada dan kekal, tapi juga selalu berubah.
Aku. Adalah sebuah kontradiksi.