Diana Kurniawan

Two days of spiralling thoughts from missing exercise and irregular sleep left me withdrawn. But, there was a pinky donut pillow that called my name, begging me to rest my head on it as it glittered in the store aisle. There was a moment of peace from a smile from a little boy and his wave to me, and a baby's wink gave me a giggle. Everything felt surreal, but I knew God was winking at me.

 

I went about my days with a broken heart of still recovering from whatever ailments went inside my head and the daily triggers that came with PTSD, but often there would be a small moment often unnoticeable, unless truly being present with yourself. The small patch of flowers on the sidewalk, the white roses that were still overbloomed although it was noticeably Autumn. The smell of eucalyptus oils that I had on, lingering throughout my days, and a friend who understood me and loved me with all that I was.

 

I had a friend when I was little, whose family was close to mine, and I never knew I would be in contact with her again, but it happened during my pressing time as well, and she sent a message through Twitter. The most inconspicuous moment, turned out to be the most rewarding.

 

God winked at small moments, not large ones. The big moments felt small compared to the long lasting effects of the small moments. God was near me, the whole time when I was down, although I felt so unvaluable and dispensable. He was trying to tell me that He does love me, and I was still the apple of His eyes, even during my struggles.

 

Just write.

Writing is an act of faith for me, so is never giving up. My life has been an adventure often full of turmoil, but I keep writing throughout my days, although not paid at every instance, because I know that if I keep writing, I will stay alive. As if I am to scribe my life to God as a report to Him, so He can read from heaven of how my days and nights are spent. 

 

There are sunshines and rainbows, and flowery moments and not everything is dark in my writing. But, when there is darkness inside me, I still write about it, to blog it, especially to God. My fear is not the perceptions of the reader anymore, but whether or not my writing serves its purpose to heal me. For once, my need to heal superseedes my desire to publish anything in this world. It is more important for me to write and write with good intention for the sake of my soul, than for the sake of commercialism or popularity.

 

I know a lot of writers want to have the literary agents and the contracts and publicity, and so do I, but I don't mind the wait and the process. I am allowing myself the journey to write, rather than ust becoming a writer with an overnight sensational story. It happens sometimes, a rags to riches story of a broken writer who suddenly becomes famous. I somehow know that I will not be as lucky, and I don't mind the work and education. Maybe, just maybe, that's what the literary bodies want to see, persistence and drive, instead of a miracle from God. They want to see the dose of reality, of a woman who is a living survivor, working through her daily struggles throughout her life with writing as her medicine. Perhaps, that's the proof the world needs, a survivor with her guts, blood, sweat and tears, pouring out with God at His mercy to give her the justice she deserves.

 

As long as I have these empty pages of my blogs, and the pen in my hand, I still feel alive. There is no money to compensate me, but the healing powers I feel inside is worth my time. This is why I will never give up, because everytime I write, there is a life force out of a mustard seed that grows inside of me, giving me the energy to keep on going. I don't mind the wait. I don't mind the journey. Just keep writing.

 

Just write.

Further than the past, all the way to the inception of my birth, I realized I wanted to become a writer. It was a calling since I was the cells of my Mother's womb. Then life came and it came hungry and greedy, fueled with jealousies because of my opportunities, especially in the United States. Every instant of my life felt watched with a camera by the CIA, with their men lurking to screen and critique my every move, that for every detail and every chance I had, I was to surrender it to them, and for their chosen families only to pursue. The opportunities I was bestowed from God felt stolen. Through bullying, through sabotage, from so called friends, and so called boyfriends, they felt the same, hateful and vengeful. 

 

These days, I felt like a folktale, of story of how I was once a hopeful girl who wanted to pursue a destiny I was called to do, but the path were ripped apart by those men and women who felt they deserved more than me. I felt the stories I wrote down were useless, and often times scanned through and thrown into the trash bin, because I had no more luck in me, since they were stolen and robbed out of me. The blessings inside my soul that were set apart by God were stabbed through my ribs, and even true love will no longer be in my destiny. 

 

I await the days when people snickered to themselves during their tea times at bookstores, telling stories of how I was once a frequent patron of the same spot, before I ended my own life because of the abuses I felt from others who stole too much from my life. I would be a ghost, flying in the midst of them, the enemies and the compassionate who would help but it was too late. My life would be a folktale of who I once was, and who I became but the world was to brutal to love me just as I was.

 

Just write.

Karina cried to herself and I sat next to her on the sofa, trying to console her. Her mind kept flashing back to the assaults and she couldn't take herself out of the vortex of the trauma.

 

"I'm so happy the Regime didn't hurt me when I was pregnant," Karina said.

 

It dawned on me that The New Order Regime never knew about Boris and Betina.

 

"Did anyone find you under the bridge? Besides Rambo?" I asked.

 

"I found her sleeping with the newborns at the end of the block near the tunnels," Rambo said.

 

"That means you're the only Royal alive, Karina," my Father said. "Boris and Betina are your heirs. They can easily take the new governing power over The New Order Regime."

 

"That's not my goal, Mr. O'Connor," said Karina. "I just wanted to live happily ever after."

 

"But, if you had a choice to take the government or say something about it, you'd be the first person who should," said Rambo.

 

"I want to wait until Betina grows up. She's my first born and Boris is next by 4 minutes," said Karina. "I will nurture them to be leaders. I think families are sovereign, and Royals are allowed to live and be as they are, especially if they help others. We are just families, like the families of Giuseppe Baptiste and Pearsons Rockfield. The Ting Dynasty never harmed anyone."

 

"That's fair, but how will we tell everyone what happened? The world accepted the Regime," said Rambo.

 

"If we expose Pearsons and Baptiste, we will show how corrupt they are and show the world that they are not fit to be the world's leaders," my Father said.

 

"What should we do about the energy shortage, and the macaroni and cheese shortage," I asked.

 

"Why must we all have to eat macaroni and cheese? The whole world is eating the same thing, and now there is a shortage in their production. What are we supposed to eat now?" Rambo said.

 

"It's the staple foods, we all eat macaroni and cheese. That's just what we eat," I said. 

 

"How come only certain items are available to Tier 1 only?" asked Karina.

 

"I eat popcorn, that's what I eat besides mac and cheese," said Rambo.

 

"Popcorn is available at all Tiers," my Father said.

 

"Why not bacon?" asked Karina.

 

"That's a Tier 1 item," said Rambo. "Tier 2 and 3 eat everything in pre-packaged containers, like macaroni and cheese. Meats and vegetables and fruits are mostly for Tier 1."

 

"Why not bacon?" I asked. "Meats and certain vegetables and fruits are for Tier 1 only. I don't see why we can't eat that instead of macaroni and cheese, or just pasta. Why can't we live as people, not as animals in the mills of Giuseppe Baptiste and Pearsons Rockfield?"

 

"That's not what we are used to eating," said my Father. "It's just what we know."

 

"Princess Diana would let Karina have bacon," I said. "She was a Royal. She was a lovely Royal. I read about her in history."

 

"The Princess with the Heart of Gold," said Rambo.

 

"I grew up wanting to marry Princess Diana," my Father said.

 

"It's a matter of greed, isn't?" asked Karina. "Only certain Tiers can eat certain foods, and the fine items belong to the Regime. With Giuseppe Baptiste and whoever this Pearsons Rockfield is, distributions of foods and incomes are not equal. Even when they say they are. They claim they give equality for all, but that's not true. The vulnerable and the homeless are still vulnerable and homeless, and worse yet, we can only eat certain foods conditioned for our social class. With this fascists and communist New Order Regime, we now bow to Giuseppe Baptiste and his counselieri, Pearsons Rockfield."

 

"What do you eat Karina?" I asked. "And you're right about The New Order Regime. They don't believe in equality."

 

"I go to the vending machine and eat whatever is there," said Karina. "The Regime only want everything that benefits the Regime."

 

"Will you eat apples?" I asked. 

 

"Why apples? Because I'm a vulnerable?" said Karina. "They offer that at the vending machines and the shelters, but nothing else. At some point, it becomes an insult."

 

"I'd eat apples if I was offered it," I said. "It's healthy."

 

"Bacon!" said Karina. "What else is left now? Macaroni and cheese are gone, and I wish I can eat that, but the Regime is taking that away from us."

 

"Father,...," I asked my Father for help, because although I was yearning for macaroni and cheese too, I knew we had to eat other foods. 

 

"When the old world existed, there were programs for the people, of all income levels. We can purchase any levels of products at our convenience. Nothing was a staple, although some people do love certain types of foods, but we were not all conditioned to eat macaroni and cheese the way The Regime did to us. We had opportunity and individualism, and our accomplishments and excellence were ours to enjoy and savor. Now, it all has to be part of the benefit of The New Order Regime," my Father said. "I think it's strange how Giuseppe Baptiste could just tell everyone what he wants and people do it. To think, he acquiered the world through murders."

 

"Why not purchase whatever Tier 1 is left," said Rambo. "There might still be foods left behind. Tier 2 and 3 must all have emptied the isles and rows at Knox."

 

"Karina, will you eat some apples if we have to?" my Father asked. "We will have to buy whatever fruits and vegetables are left behind, and especially apples."

 

Karina looked to me and my Father, and told us, "I suppose so. But, what else would be left now?"

 

"We will have to go to Knox and see," said Rambo. "I still have popcorn."

 

"We can't live on popcorn alone," my Father said. 

 

"I could," I said, as Rambo and I high-fived.

 

"Bacon, please," said Karina.

 

"We will get bacon for Karina," said Father. "Princess Diana would be proud of us."

 

Just write.

There is prescience in preserving our lives, although trauma and violence struck at a young age. The walk may never be admirable and full of thorns, but the honesty and truth it shows are valor to justice. When the rest of the unjust rebute their innocence, we, victims of violence, remain to be the trustworthy, the honorable, and the sacred. Simply, because we are the hurting, and the infliction is from the sadists's crime. 

 

The walk turns into running on gravel, because it can be tiresome alone and what we deserve is fuel to keep going. I think of myself as the wonder woman, no pun intended with my name, Diana, but let the truth reveals itself. The illness from the traumas and violence manifests in so many different ways, but my channel of creativity supports the innocence who can't speak for themselves, those ashamed of the past, and those who wants to hide. I take pride in my walk, because I am sacred, as all victims of violence are.

 

Which leaves us to wonder what to do with the criminal minds and those who never saw punishment? They are not sacred. They are foul play. They are all sadists criminals. Their actions are the same of the corrupt minds, who destroys and abuse, worthy of judgement, especially by God. I never make any rules, just an intelligent and sacred human being, worthy of trust and honor. 

 

It is easier to trust me and we, the victims of violence, than to trust the latter. Why? Less crimes, obviously, and less sin, and your lives leads to heaven. God makes these rules, not me, and I profess with all honesty, that I remain as loving and compassionate as I am. I love victims of violence, because we are the majority now, and the world will keep going, and we choose to love one another, and the myth of us being the wretched is superstition. We work hard on healing, and will keep going. 

 

Our love endureth, as mine always will. Just write.

Pre-sexual assaults , I caffeinated thrice a day, nursing my same cup of coffee while pouring fresh dozes of it every four hours. Fast forward twenty years, as I adapted to my post-traumatic-stress and depression, I nurtured my mind with the same flavor but oh so different chemical compounds. It wasn't my choice, it somehow found me. Thanks to the deceit of my favorite baristas.  

 

I thought it was coffee, but it was decaf. The same effect of the jolt, with lesser emotional roller coaster. Cowardice for the caffeine enthusiasts, but I was not ashamed of it. I purposely told every Starbucks barista for it, and even with the occasional cold brew, I felt less guilty. I didn't hurt anyone, just kicking a knotch up my day. Why mess with a good thing? A little treat for a traumatic woman meant a blissful satisfaction that cured today's emotional problems.

 

If I forgot it, I felt it, and I'd ask for another cup. Somehow, letting them deceive me felt good. I wondered why I loved it so much, because I only like it with 2 percent milk and no sugar. There was so sweet details about it, instead it's just plain. But, it helped me cope. It didn't change my situation, but it changed my thought process, and that changed my attitude in life. 

 

For this my fifteen minutes of free write, I've rambled about nonsense to some, but it truly did made my day to be honest and have the same taste with less crazyness. It might not be a big deal, but it was, to me. Maybe this blog helped no one, because it gave a close and personal look of my life through my eyes, but when I created it, I hoped it helped at least one person, even a little. 

 

Next time, no coffee, but decaf only.

 

Just write.

Flashbaacks told me every day of my mistakes, labelling me with the world's hatred. The soul ties felt recent and their curses felt like skin. It pulled me below the Earth and I needed to escape. What fault did this survivor do that called those sadists into action, because the wounds felt so deep marking me for the grave.

 

The psalms told me to wait patiently on the Lord, and to delight in Him. What else could I do besides so? I fear God, because He allowed the suffering. I question the greater purpose and I question His love, yet I longed for His words as if an unquenchable thirst that sought wisdom all throughout my life.

 

I wished wrong choices was never my mistake, but cast the first stone O thy righteous ones. Let not thy mouth utter judgement against me. 

 

Trusting, I shall lead a peaceful life, expecting nothing, surrendering everything. Must I ask for the world's permission? To choose sovereignty for my own freedom and justice? I shall write forever, even till death because His trust on my writing has always been worth more than their crimes. 

 

Perhaps one day, the world trusts survivors and their stories, and let justice be upheld. The intrinsic choice has to be made real, to trust the victim, and not the perpetrator.

 

The cliff hanger called my life felt scary at times, because I went through the worst of times, yet still expecting the best of times. Writing was my saving grace then, and it still is now. I felt it was the only way out, because the devil lurked at every corner, kicking my heels as he watched me stumbled down like a wobbly child.

 

Sometimes, I wished I had a different life. Sometimes, I wished my life was easier to live. But, still, I am grateful I am alive.

 

Just write.

Breathing in, I let the tendrils of anxieties relax into a perspicacious gentleness from fears, noticing control over emergencies. Letting oxygen slowly escape through my teeth, courage out of the tensions settle into my chest.

 

Inconspicuously, courage stays through my life without my knowledge, although I expected provision and aid, yet no one came. It is standing alone breathing in cold air, although I yearn for his tall stature and long arms wrapping me inside his body. Courage leans in, holds me and moves me forward.

 

With the prejudice of comparisons and judgement, courage innocuously grounds me. It offenses no one and welcomes each moment with open arms. It doesn't let me swallow the pills when all direction feels like failures in life. Courage cries with the trying times, tearing down my walls and letting you read my vulnerability.

 

Just write.

"How are you getting in the building?" Rambo asked.

 

"With my longboard to the window levels and I know there's an open window somewhere, and break in," I told him. I didn't care what would happen, because it would be evening soon, and my longboard has fuel for another day and a half to fly.

 

"What am I going to do? I can't look obvious while waiting for you," Rambo said. "I'm waiting behind the next block."

 

"Just wait for me at the apartment," I told Rambo.

 

"Karina will be there with your Dad," Rambo said. "Be quick." I nodded, and walked to the Post building, with my longboard, in the dark.

 

There were crowds of people looking at the street lights, wondering why the solars weren't on. 

 

"I don't know what to call this lightbulb crisis! It's a total blackout and they don't care about pedestrians anymore," said a woman. "How are we supposed to feel safe?"

 

"I don't like the look of this," said another lady. "First the lightbulbs, then next its a potato famine."

 

I ignored the rucous talks and kept walking to the Post building, hoping to steer away from the public. 

 

The Post building looked haunted with dark windows and white paint and not a soul was inside. I walked to the back near the fast food restaurant and lifted off into the air with my longboard. I waited to rise to the top of the building to check if the rooftop door was open. The door was locked and I lowered my longboard along the windows and found a small opening in one of the middle windows along the high tower. The building has changed so much with glass all over the building replacing the structure of the white siding of the building. I crawled in through the small opening, and found myself inside a room with cubicles and I jumped on the flooring hoping I won't set off an alarm. The electricity was off and this was my glory. 

 

I dialed my wrist phone and hologram came up, with my Father's face. "Dad, I'm in. How will I find anything in the dark?"

 

"Find one of the boards, they must have some kind of outline of the news somewhere. Also, look inside the executive rooms, because those are the rooms where government official have their meetings," said my Father. "I know because I've met some journalists before and they said the rooms has all changed into government offices."

 

"Okay, I will call in an hour," I said, as I hung up.

 

I scrambled through papers in the big offices that were wide open, finding papers with policies and official business.

The papers had logos of The New Order and finally, for the first time, I saw the machete with fire logos printed on the official government. All these times, I never cared, until now. I didn't even know they re-wrote the Bill of Rights, to be what The New Order wanted, only to benefit the regime. 

 

A small red book fell on the floor, and it looked like a notebook too small to be anything important. I flipped through the pages, and written on November 3rd, 2525, was a dreaded agenda of Giuseppe Baptiste's Violin performance on the Capitol Lawn. 

 

Just write.

 

The trajectory of my path was convoluted at my birth, and the road whirled into a knotted yarn of working progress. Never knew why I was meant to be treated as an object of derision but the past haunted like a gravedigger's nightly shift. The thoughts left me still, silenced, speechless and wounded my mind into the deep valleys.

 

i wrote it out, because it was the only way out of the mindless overthinking. Too ambitious for a minute's reflection, but the opportunity lost that I endured felt too great to bear as the present. I became the past with my regrets and pained from the loss of love and dreams of a happily ever after.

 

The struggles I felt at five to forty-four felt endless. I kept count of the good times, as I wrote them out for myself to remember. It was all about writing my life out on paper or typing the languages of my heart into a working progress. 

Sometimes I wished I never knew how to write or read because I was called since I was young but the world hated me for it. Was I the working progress meant to end early in my days? Or was I meant to endure pain so great just to be forced to rejection? My world felt negative at this moment because I felt my writing was the burden of my life all along, or was it my gift and saving grace.

 

I couldn't escape the arduous road of my life, even when I thought I gave it my all. But, even through the negative, I couldn't escape my own words transferring onto these pages as my expression, my release, my solace, and my hope. Perhaps, I was meant to write after all, just because I was born for it.

 

Just write.