Diana Kurniawan

My mind had a curly-cue of thoughts that spiraled this morning, and I was tired by 8 am. Breathing didn't do and I tried to put away thoughts of my oppressors, those who harmed me, but the memories silenced and shunned me. I locked my own jaw from the racing thoughts and I walked outside and touched a leaf. The Corinthians spoke and captured my thoughts, as I inhaled deep and spoke life to myself.

 

There was never anything wrong with writing, as my life felt like it depended on it. Writing will keep me alive, and not even the devil could stop me. Negative thoughts told me that I was no good, and my writing would never be seen, or appreciated, and the devil won. Hot tears flowed down my face, but my mask soaked it.

 

It was more difficult to entertain the vortex inside my brain than to let it go. I surrendered and told God, "take me as I am and promise to keep me alive," as if a pair of angel ears were listening. Right now, the world won't keep turning based on negativity. The world will keep turning for optimism, hope, faith, love and humanity. I won't live for the negative, instead I will breathe in the positive, the truth, and the life. I won't stop writing, although it felt hopeless and it felt like no one wanted me to write.

 

Writing was free, and it felt honest and beautiful and will keep me going. I will surrender more, read more, learn more, and embrace the unknown. It already happened, because my writing was done long ago and it lived on. I won't think less of my craft or compare, because to each their own when it came down to it. Every prose concocts out of the immersion from the soul of the writer's life, and it was never for comparison.

 

The sadness won't dampen me, instead I will trade it on these empty pages. Writing it down and typing it aways, and letting it live to be an example for those who might experienced the same. Every writer had their sorrows, and I was no different.

 

Just write.

I stood up from my after-school meditation, because today's practicum via Fox.org gave me a migraine. Hybrid high school wasn't the same after the White Plaque. Coronavirus was so yesterday, because the vaccine worked well and I got my shots just two weeks ago for the four times a year recommended dose. But, the White Plaque truly was something else. It gave me chills for three days, yet milder than the CoVid19. 

 

Outside felt right just now, so I took my Street Paddle elongated to its five feet maximum length with a rubber bottom. Passive enough for a toy, but as aggressive as the Shaolin Kung-Fu Wooden Stick. I grabbed my granola cubes and pistachios packets and put them inside my shoulder pack. I took my longboard and turned on its anti-gravity button, and shoved the remote in my pocket. I stood on it, and it synchronized with my street paddle. I opened my bedroom door and flew downstairs to bid my farewells for the afternoon.

 

"Dad, leaving. Need time for myself. I'm going to see, Rambo," I told my Father.

 

"Don't stay out too late. By 7, the sirens will come on in our zone. It's Denver, and not the country side, so check the time," he said.

 

Rambo lived with his sister near the old Five-Points, now labeled as Zone 5, where the emancipated orphan youth were allowed to live independently. He never knew what it felt like to wear spray deodorant. I tried it on when I was five, but it wasn't anything special.

 

Flying by Colfax was like a mall. Everyone had their hoods on and their masks with protective goggles. The White Plaque attacks the cornea and could lead to blindness. Crap for some homeless folks, most became blind and they never received their indigence benefits due to no permanent address.

 

My stomach growled and my granola cube was out of reach, so I took my pistachio packet  and ripped it apart thenemptied the content into my mouth. I lived in Capitol Hill, because Father was the surgeon for Banner. Since they transformed into a Socialist Hospital, their logo became a blue flag with a red cross in the middle. Father told me that it was our justice.

 

By the time I got to Rambo's pad, his bike was not there. He must be on a walk somewhere. Emancipated youths won't go far on foot, because they have no vehicle license until they turn 21. Crap kept happening, and it was out of control since the White Plaque. But, Rambo was special. He survived with his sister, because he told me that he had the grit of a slave and a desire like a pirate on alcohol. Rambo will never die, and I will make sure he lives forever. I felt a revolution was brewing inside me....and I needed Rambo. Where could he be?

 

Just write.

The future is bright. The journey so far, aside from those of the five million who were infected from the Coronavirus, must have felt as the elephant's ton. We have to trust that there has always been a way out, and it won't disappear. It may not always look like a window, or a door. We should be cognizant that it may appear in the most abject form of poverty, or from those who were ridiculed, raped, beaten, or shamed. We need to recognize that the future, due to the unhealthy past, might not be perfect and may not be model beautiful, or a Harvard grad, it might just be you.

 

The future is bright. Considering how broken we all felt for the past six months or the past twenty years as I felt, we should welcome healing from all directions and become smarter in eyeing the love and optimism. The help was there, but we never appreciated it because we believed the wrong people. The corruption has to stop because I felt the world became tired and it fought us back. Nature was a mother, and she felt violated, and she deserves healing.

 

The future is bright. Why won't it be? We have geniuses who were born in the midst of the pandemic, and those who were grown adults, creating vaccines, and fought wars of all wars. We were warriors and will always be. The battle was tough wasn't it? It kept on for a while now, and might be on for a bit more, but you will be strong. You will make it through. You were meant to.

 

The future is bright. The sun was angry and turned on us, with the wind turning cyclones with thunders and lightning, but we all embraced the sun, and the moon, and the clouds came with the soft rain. Glory with a crawl as Dr. Martin Luther King also said, "...If you can't run, walk. If you can't walk, crawl....," so we crawled and we will crawl for a while, because unemployment won't just end tomorrow. We will work together.

 

The future is bright. We won't be destroyed and I sure won't be, because I deserved my triumphs, and my life with restoration. My destiny was not the world's to begin with, and neither was yours. Keep steady, keep going, keep living, and keep studying.

 

Keep writing. The future is bright. 

 

Just write.

I was never meant to be famous. I knew since I was born. But, I was meant to write, and whether I will publish or not, it was never up to me in the first place. It has always been a number of things at play in the universe and at times, I felt at odds with the whole world. I wrote since I could create words and composed sentences, for pure healing. I felt it was the sentence of my life and I may die never becoming a published author, but the process may lead me to a place of health and solace. 

 

The fame never belonged to me in the first place. It has always been for those who led me to a place of comfort and compassion. The un-named Indonesian lad who offered me Kopi Lewak at the compound at the base of Mt. Bromo in Java, who offered counsel and told me that the whole world was full of assault victims, and I should never be afraid of life. The stranger who told me that I will one day reach my destiny, in whatever form it may be, near the telescope at the wall overlooking Mt. Bromo, where God spoke to me and told me, "Enjoy your sunrise, as if it is your last."

 

The fame goes to the Ethiopian man who asked me for some sustenance in the middle of Central London, as I handed him a Larabar and he replied, "You deserve a Pulitzer prize," without knowing if I could even write. To the Briton in his tank top who kindly obliged to my request to share a table at a crowded Starbucks, so I could write out my busy thoughts before I dropped into sobs from symptoms of PTSD and Depression. To the Mayan little girl in Mexico, who negotiated on a fair price and convinced me to buy a pair of handkerchiefs to bring to America. Her skills touched my heart. They deserved all of the fame in the world, although the world was never kind to the random strangers who didn't fit into a mold of a model or a billionaire.

 

The fame goes to my friend Kristin who showed me a rainbow patterned men's brief boxers with a goofy picture of an Afro-Puffed man near the groin area. Her comedy came in a blonde bombshell full of suprises. To Sarah Schantz, the author of FIG, whose craft inspired me to become raw and honest leading me to a steady flow of juices of creativity. The fame belonged to the volunteers at homeless shelters all across the world whose self-less devotion meant confidence in humanity. 

 

There were plenty of famous people worldwide, if we could look closer, that I never asked for fame, instead I lived it because I was already the apple of God's eyes. That even if I were to die in my sleep, I would die happy, knowing I wrote for 15 minutes in full honesty of my heart. Never regretting the path of how I got here, because it was not entirely my own doing, but through good works and faith, I was led to a peaceful life. 

 

The fame goes to the millions of artists, carvers, painters, illustrators and designers who worked behind the scenes, enjoying their art unfold without the barrage of media and publicity. Their earnest patience and humility nobled the process of artistic value. Their love without the selfish desire for attention created authenticities grounded to the soil, for their blood, sweat and tears. 

 

The fame goes to the legions of victims of racism, including myself of the assaults, all across the universe. We deserve a voice to be heard, for every sorrow we endured and every heartaches we overcame. Writing it all down as investigative reports to God.

 

And so, I will write, not for fame or glory, but to heal and for all fairness in life that I deserved; because of the scars upon my back, my heart, my mind and my soul. It was my destiny.

 

Novels, short stories, verse or poetry, psalms, lyrics (yes, I sing), or chicken scratch, I was meant to.

 

The fame goes, to you, O dear reader. 

 

I love you. Just write. 

The River Gorge rushed wild with high waters flowing over to my raft as I paddled to the capsized friend. He reached for my hand and I pushed his shoulders into the water as he bounced towards me and I pulled him inside. Two foster children in the water lost their guides far from the creek they were to stay in. One child held on to a rock and slipped his grip and his body floated into the wild waters downstream. I paddled and yelled, "swim downstream and just let the waters float you to the edge, just swim. I'll catch you there." The boy swimmer couldn't go far and I was worried for his drowning because his life jacket could only do so much.

 

A little girl, not much from five, with a life jacket wailed down the current, and my friend I rescued earlier told me, "I can swim to her!" The sound of the water masked his voice, and I heard, "I can reach her," and so I gave him my oar that I kept back from the cabin before the trip and told him, "Strech this out to her when we get close," and I kept paddling and rushed down digging my paddle deep and sweeping the waters behind me to move upstream. Rafting against the current was dangerous because the waves goes under the raft and pushed it up with more chances to capsize, but the little girl deserved her second chance in life. The sound of her cries cracked the silenced years in my ears, from the loss of prospects for children and the loss of finding true love. Her cries was my saving grace.

 

It took all of my stamina to paddle upstream to her to push against the surfing currents as she held on to a large branch over her head with both hands stretched with her body being pulled away from the wild rivers. My friend, let's call him Joe, stretched the oar and put it in between her arms just over her head and she grabbed it. Joe pulled her close and I kept surfing against the stream.

 

"What's your name?" I asked her, as she held on to the oar and Joe pulled her inside our raft. "Kayla," she said, in tears of tremors. She shivered from the cold waters, but the orange sun from the wild fires nearby was high above us and we all knew she would dry off. "Hang on tight in the raft, we have another friend downstream." We paddled around and surfaced the raft swiftly downstream following the rushing current. 

 

The boy was still in his life jacket and he swam three miles down the stream, but he was safely near the edge of the river, in betwen two rocks. He must have held on the rocks and stayed there for safety because the current won't move it and its solid surface was not covered with moss. The boy didn't cry, instead he smiled at me and my friend, Joe, and told us, "I know how to swim," and we curved the rock to pick him up. He hugged Kayla and Joe, and I rafted down to the cabin station downstream to the right of the fork of the Gorge. 

 

Paddling the raft felt like carrying a newborn puppy. It felt fresh in my soul, but with a softness of comfort and love in my bones, with the backdrop of the wilderness. If only I rafted everyday of my life, this dream in my sleep would mostly be more wild. When we arrived at the cabin, my body was soaked and my yoga pants and five-fingers slip-ons were sopping wet. Joe was happy and carried Kayla as she stopped crying and asked for some hot chocolate. The boy came to me, and hugged my flat stomach, "Hunter," he said, "my name is Hunter." And I cried to pieces, as the yearnings for children and a loving husband finally came to an end. 

 

The cabin was opened and the Duke of Cambridge was there, in a batik sarong, and a Balinese wrap hat on his head. He had a Sumatran sash and shirt over him and wrapped in his waist was a leather belt and shoulder stap with a Batik handle and artilleries. He came to me, and told me, "I've watched you grow. You've done good, even with the mistakes you've made." His voice of acceptance held me together as I felt a peace over me, from the tip of my hairs to the tip of my toes. He told me that I've overcame many afflictions and I was sovereign. "Fear no more," he told me.

 

I woke up this morning, and felt at ease. Even in dreams, I was loved.

 

Just write.

The rocks on the soil gives into the Earth as my sneakers steps one foot in front of the other, pacing with my music. Running on the grainy and cracked ground is succor to my soul. The pebbles won't lead to a fall and the friction gives a chance to solidify the muscles striations forming on my calves. It is worth the endurance and my stamina keeps me going. 

 

The weeds on the trail are now as tall as me, with large sunflowers and leafs the size of my palms. There is no creek, but the path gives me a way to cope and leads me to a healthy life. The forgiving trail loves everyone, the weary, the mentally ill, the hopeful, the criminals and those who just needs a walk away from the city. 

 

Trails like these makes me a faster runner, although at times I stop from the heat inside my body, almost out of breath but not out of hope. I love trail running, eventhough I am no expert on any trails or any sport. The acceptance from the trail makes me feel loved and I gain energy and peace of mind.

 

Don't run with a motive, just do it. Pace, one step at a time, and let the trail lead you to a focus on the journey. Even if you run for an hour like me, or for ten hours like some, the trail is sanguine and wonder. Keep sweating and keep running, keep loving and keep writing. Life won't stop and neither should I and neither should you.

 

Time feels fast when I run on these trails and although my feet often drags from the small grating rocks underneath my feet, I ignore the pain. I don't want to stop because I deserve to keep running. Nothing matters on these trails, and the ground allows for trading sorrows. Let your tears flow and let your mind chatter with your lips professing in verse, no one is listening. Your secrets are safe on these trails. 

 

Steady on and steady state, with your feet stepping and bouncing over the Earth, the soil is happy to have me. I am with joy as I power up my life, bending my knees slightly as each foot steps wholesomely, and lifts up in sprints. Life is to be a journey and so is health, and these trails keeps my stamina alive.

 

Just write. 

A few miles down the road, a cottonwood with hands for branches stands green in the prairie. The street of Highway 52 goes to 287 North and roads through Longmont like an asphalt river through the city. The cars drive without disruptions and it is always a peaceful road. A bus stop is on Main and 21st, near a Wallgreens with a free vaccums sign inside the plexiglass casing for the advertisement. There are no vaccums, but the promise gives a hope and a giggle for the woman on the metal seat underneath the stop. 

 

The bus is probably half an hour away but the woman sits patiently, with a brown purse that slings around her right shoulder. Not too skinny, perhaps a medium at Kohls, but solid with calves thick enough to kick a wild dog. She doesn't ask questions, but keeps looking down 287 North with a hope of a destination. Her hair is in a ponytail and her brown skin soaks up the sunrays beyond the clouds. She doesn't twiddle her thumb on the metal seat, rather places her hands on her purse, protecting it, because a woman of worth knows her belongings and it is her right. 

 

Her mask is not designer, instead the disposable type with a white stretchy rubber around her ears. Designers masks are in these days and sadly, it is the new normal, but for the woman, disposable is her choice. The woman has cheeks worthy to be pinched but no one will mess with her because her eyes are coal fierce and round like a steel wrecking ball. She looks down Main Street again and no bus, yet.

 

Next Urgent Care is close by, with just one car in the parking lot and no emergencies. Whoever goes into the urgent care doesn't know about out-of-network charges without Medicaid, and Obamacare is not part of the accessible plans. The woman stands and leans against the bus stop with her temple on the plexiglass. Dog days of Summer can cause a heat stroke, but cool breeze refreshes her as strands of her hair flies in the wind. She looks above her and the rectangular metal shade is over her head, attached to the plexiglass casing with steel outlining the bus stop. She looks over her wrist, but there is no watch, as she caresses her skin. Que hora es, porque el autobus es muy tarde!

 

Everything moves slower with the Coronavirus, and the woman walks back to her seat, waiting. 

 

Just write.

"Mom, can I have this?" I asked her, with a Spider-Man helmet in my hands. CSPC, ASTM as it said on the tag. I put it on and locked the safety class under my chin.

 

"Jeremy, scale it down a notch. You have to stop asking for things you already have," she said, holding a Purell anti-bacterial in one hand. "People are dying."

 

"It's Spider-Man," I begged.

 

"He took out his tonsils and kisses girls upside down, and you still think he's your favorite?" Mom said. Her cheeks turned red and I knew I had to stop asking or we won't go out for lunch and I'd have to eat left-overs.

 

"Are you angry with me?" I asked, with the helmet still on.

 

"Honey, you know how only fat people go to the Dairy Queen? Spoiled kids will always get bad parking spots when they get their driver's license when they turn 16," she replied. "Do you want to be spoiled? Do you think that's a fair life?"

 

I took a breath and walked to the next aisle and saw a man with his glasses upside down. I didn't want to ask what happened to him, but he probably had popcorn flavored jelly beans stuck up his nose when he was little too.

 

"Mom, can I have a pen?" I asked her and took a pen to show her.

 

"Yes, put it in the cart," she said, as she took the pen from my hands.

 

"I have one at home, how come I can't have the helmet?" I asked, with the helmet still on.

 

Her lips quivered, as she stared at my face, then closed her eyes with her right hand. 

"I won't be spoiled, I promise," I told her. The insides of my stomach tickled because I knew if I had this helmet, I could ride my bicycle faster than my Dad's Volvo.

 

"No, but thank you for the laughs, baby," she told me, as she burst into laughter.

 

"Fine," I dragged my feet to the back of the store and took off the Spider-Man helmet and felt lousy like yesterday's towel.

 

"Jeremy, hurry up!" Mom yelled at me, while pushing her cart towards my direction.

 

Like always, I ran to her cart and stood backwards on the front wheel with my arms stretched back, holding the front of the cart.

 

Mom pushed me down the toilet paper aisle, and I flew the rest of the shopping away.

 

"Mom, look at that Slime Kit!" my eyes popped.

 

Just write.

The rejections ransomed my thoughts, but writing was more than magic. The empty pages offered more than doubts as the invitation besotted me with a soulful divination. Although I was a wounded sinner, the calling for stories gave me a drive to push forward.

 

Writing my stories reconciled my passion with grace, my sins with forgiveness, and depression into healing. The fear gone and I was immersed into a world of mine own, that of which no one could harm. This word junkie propelled forward, moving against the devil who begged me to give up my life and my literary journey.

 

The fuel to write was the vicissitudes from self pity, an action towards love. Away sorrow, away loneliness, and be gone hatred. They were no more because these empty pages befriended me with kindness and compassion, a true love no one could sabotage. 

"Keep going," said my thoughts, as I wrote down the desires to live and to write, till I am no more. Why stop, when my life has been full of stories the world deserved to hear?

 

Just write.

Rejection felt as costly as doubt. Whereas doubt arose from within our thoughts, rejection was an infliction from outside of our control. Doubt was just an imagined worst outcome, but rejection felt so final. However, both felt it could cause one to the other. Push.

 

A fool cares for neither doubt nor rejections. He kept on going, oddly enough just as winners and champions. Was I a fool for literature if I was rejected by many? Or was I made like a champion with an unflinching faith as if I was made to write. Push.

 

What kept a writer to write other than hope after rejection and full of doubt? It has got to be faith and belief, for a voice original to society and mankind. Humanity held under the table as if a gun to an enemy. It could spark and fire at any moment. Push.

 

Fires and sparks were the elements they wanted as readers, yet there was no telling if I had ever caused any. Perhaps some kind of miracle could happen to me, turning me into a literary fairy, writing words of wisdom to children and adults that ripples throughout the world. Push.

 

No matter a fool or champion, my faith in stories and words won't harm none. It was a method to play, create, heal, and hope for, of which my mind could rest upon. Push.

 

Rejection or doubt, even worry or hopelessness could be erased with every effort I placed. Publishing or not, and making or not, even if it was just this blog, push. Until it ends.

 

Just write.