by Devina Gunawan
Featured image: Untitled, Jackson Pollock
When tangled in my own mess, I tend to always scissor my way out. It would always seem like the easiest, fastest way to get out: to cut off all the strings.
Yet I was not born with a pair of scissors in the place of my hands.
I never had the privilege of getting out of things so easily.
In the end, we all have to face the consequences of our actions. The fruit of our horrible acts. The pain we have caused, not only people involved in our mess, but also our own heart.
Little by little, I damaged myself more and more every single time I built chaos before running away. And it never hit me.
But when reality starts sinking in, that what one does will cost her more than she initially calculated, she eventually starts realizing what damages she has made.
And when she tries to cut off all the strings attached to her, it will be too late. For then, she has lost the power to scissor her way out. She never had a pair of scissors to begin with. Not even a knife.
It was always just her. And her pride has never let her feel the sting of the devil. Her pride has clouded over her judgment and heart.
And even when the way out is through a simple act of confession, she will not bulge.
Not because it seems unreal, but because of her pride and unforgiving honor. They won’t let her leave them. Her loud, lying voice of a cheat, and her cold, stoned ice of a heart.
“Just one confession, and it will all be over.”
Yet she will not take it, only for the sake of keeping herself safe in her own little paradise.
Those strings will squeeze the life out of her, and yet she will force her mind to see it differently. She will fight to see the ‘beauty’ of her torment, all for nothing more than an empty prize of pride.
I used to admire her, and her incredible strength in keeping herself right where she rightfully belongs.
I used to say, “That is what perseverance is. This is true endurance.”
But the more I praise her, the bigger her cloud grows, the louder her lies roar, and the more it hurts when reality slaps me with the raw truth.
In the end, the choice falls into my hand. Be it to stay the way she is, proud and deceitful, or embrace what is left of me and come out clean, ready for the consequences and prices that I have to pay.
I was not born with a pair of scissors in the place of my hand, but my mind has a stronger grip on reality than I let it. And it will eventually come down to this, that at some point, I will have to release myself from the dead woman caught in her strings.
Or find myself smiling at an illusion of a life in place of what is truly dead.