Recycling

Something wasted; the sawang stretched the despair

I woke up tonight, unable to sleep. Actually what is this suffering of people who are stricken with heart problems, problems that cannot be reconciled with graffiti.

When I scribble paper, resentment piles up, longing rages on. Sometimes all that I felt would disappear, but this time, at night I had completely scribbled a lot of paper.

A great deal. I remembered Grandpa who had said staying up late was not good for health. It's just, it's very difficult for me, my eyes can't shut to sleep. This sanubari seems to fly to the corners of the country in the middle of nowhere.

Plus that night, I was really wandering around, talking to a woman who was telling me her point of view. He was in despair, in the pain of tears. More about the skyline that I find difficult to explain.

The net-plastered sawang stretches its breadth in the middle between heaven and earth. I know enough to keep quiet. Staring at him was unyielding unable to make a speech.

Almost a long time passed, embroidered with a soft feel. The woman I now look at in the mind explains the figure of a beloved man who went to a distant land and disappeared without news. Desperation at that time filled the women's nights with sobs of intense crying.

I stopped wiping my tears, sometimes reading stories that describe the pain someone feels when it touches the heart.

The story was written on the book sheet that I had read, the book was originally obtained when I entered the warehouse where grandfather stored his belongings.

I was clearly staring blankly, the book was old, even the cover looked worn and dusty. When she arrived at the end of the story, the woman took out her best verses, a melodious-sounding verse, as the wind blew the bamboo.

I stopped right at the end of the verse. For a moment of contemplation, thinking about the story being read is sad, how can someone experience it? It clearly feels painful. I do not avoid much about it, in fact life will be felt when someone experiences it.

I don't need to tell much because the story seems to describe clearly between me and Wapta, although it is very far from the eye, I even foolishly still love a woman named Lita Aksima.

However, now there is little sense of indeterminate hanging between me and him. Although, I know all this is fake love that claps one hand. Lita Aksima, a woman who clearly does not like the word love, all kinds of forms of sentences that are said to come from the heart, but the reality is a lie in front of the eyes.

At that time when I met him, a clear drop from the splash of the waterfall fell to the sidelines of the rocks, where it became a silent witness to my meeting and her. I recognize myself as the one who has been guilty of abandoning her, forgetting all her feelings, love and pent-up affection.

In that moment, I went innocent by ignoring the vulnerable feeling called heart. When I thought about it, I said sorry with a strong tiered soaring into the sky.

I am not a person who has been strong to step, not a person who has been standing up through the wind, but I am a person who is aware from time to time. I realized not just one thing, but many things.

One of my consciousnesses in this world, sometimes there are many things that I cannot think of myself. In the night, I again screamed inside after the pent-up feeling. I then imagine the sadness that once came to torment me and the scratch that left a painful feeling, piercing the heart with rubble, crying in the intercalary nights, humming verses.

Honestly, I really need a friend who can be discussed about this matter. Close your eyes, fall asleep. I need a break so I can have tomorrow.

Nevertheless, it was too late, it was too late! The day has dawn. The breath depends on the uncomfortable feeling.

When the silence dwells in the village, cock crowing becomes a characteristic that is often heard, but here it is silent, even without the sound of adhan reverberating.

I set the alarm. The alarm was a friend to me. Now the alarm goes off, reminding myself of the arrival of prayer time. It is time for the obligation to me when it is carried out.

Cold weather has become a hallmark of every dawn. Before the sun appears on the eastern horizon it emits a warm glow. I faced with a spacious soul, finished from it and prayed, raising my hand with all my desire.

I prepared myself to go with routine activities like other student children. Self-reliance is my attitude from the past, I didn't expect much. In this world, I know enough. I quite understand, all the events that I went through were like the form of stories that night I read them all.

I didn't complain at all because both eyes could still sit with the people, breathing quietly with airy thoughts flying.

The morning that the sun began to appear, I saw people seemed busy with their needs, busy preparing items in their stores.

Grandpa is one of them. I wanted to help, even preparing to tighten my muscles, but with a grand grandfather smile.

“Students. In the morning, enjoy your youth, before the twilight comes. Get there early, more than anyone.” At 06:43 in the morning. It's too early to leave. He showed me his golden watch. In fact, I also have a clock, although black metal, not golden like the one in his hand.

Just then, I stared at his golden clock, focusing on the short needle pointing at the number six. That's where it says, six o'clock in the morning, half seven past thirteen minutes.

“You've seen it, what time is it? Immerse yourself as a student with totality. Study and study. Help grandpa, you have time other than studying!” Grandfather scatters the speech, restraining myself from speaking.

He showed a macho style that I could see like a normal youngster, his clapping, his pouting face looked steady.

In fact, every morning I always help him. Is all this because that night grandfather read my writing or his words alone that I cannot understand in the short term, in a matter of hours? I don't know, more and more deeply, I don't like to think about such complicated things, other than the words of the poet that I want to master and examine more deeply.

The whole point of Grandpa's speech was that I was told to study. Maybe grandpa knew all this time I was busy thinking about the word love that if thought more lightly it has no end, until whenever discussed.

It was likely that grandfather also knew all along that I was busy thinking about a woman who was clearly nowhere near me, wasting no time at all.

Whether or not my thoughts are right, but that's what I can understand in a matter of minutes. When discussing the word satire, sometimes this brain is smoother, faster connected.

The words that grandfather had previously spoken were like insinuating myself. I know all this time I was busy writing words of love that have no benefit, words of love that may have been stale. There are people out there who can write words, even more beautiful than mine.

But I write not for it, but for what I feel. The feeling that arises in the form of sincerity when writing it, that is what I like, not a conversation or just a sweet word spoken, but calmness when describing things, explaining more, and more, longer about events and feelings contained in written form.

Grandpa's right. I have to focus on learning and learning, keep learning. You know, in front of the world there, Grandpa said before I walked away and turned my head. Know, there is a stretch of many towering buildings, in every room air-conditioned there are reliable people typing computers, doing proposals, important documents and so forth. They all get the job it's not as easy as flipping a palm.

“Young. Don't think about love. When you achieve your dreams, there will be a lot of love that comes to see you.” This time, I actually remembered his words exactly as his face was plastered like a hologram in my mind. Those were the words that had just come out of his mouth, just as I was going quite far. He exclaimed with a palm of worship.

Grandfatherbiscuts. I know what you mean. Mean all the words you say. For the sun's sake that is struggling to shine on the earth, I am still here, still with a sense of doubt that is difficult to translate, difficult to explain.

Earth child besides me, maybe his fate is not like mine, not thinking of one woman, they fly freely in the sky. Without the burden, it's they're not me who is always worried about stepping, worried about everything.

I still remember his name, a name that soars into the sky, a name that still remembers as strong as a rope that snare. Is it possible that all this was because of the writing of the day, the writing that I had previously revised. At that time, I reread with feelings and heart murmurs.

Instantly I was leeching with a lethargic spirit. This is the end of longing, a lie that can lie to yourself with all deceptive words. Behind the scenes of drama disguised fake romance, emitting rhyming sounds, songs pitched.

Tone that erodes the inner. Slitting his chest without regret passed. In living life, taking a foothold, maybe this is how it is, something that is quite confusing to me. Something I really don't understand, how deeply I can use life, looking for the truth of laughter and tears.

All of that requires a longer struggle, not a little time that I have to examine, even if necessary I have to travel around the world, ask and ask experts to get the truth.

I am like one who is in the sky, in the midst of heaven and earth. However, overcome all these musings, not always life is contemplated continuously, not always feelings are used as an excuse. That's how I feel. I need to be stronger, mentally stronger in the face of it all.

Along the way to college, I daydreamed for the umpteenth time. That's a bad habit that often somehow consciously unconsciously always so.

“Narak, saran sawat.” One of them called my name, said good morning.

He came up to me smiling as usual. My daydream was jolted, the thought that had been flying now fell and ended up into the mouth of the river.

I swim, honestly tired. A moment to breathe. He is Martin. Don't be fooled by his name. It sounds like a man's name, but he's a woman.

A native who lives in his own country. The country is known as the White Elephant. In fact, the name Narak here is used for the name of a woman. I just found out about it. When I found out I was in a daze myself, it was appropriate that grandfather called me Roman reminding him of father as well as to distinguish to neighbors, but that day when entering university my name was still Narak.

That name was my mother's gift. I like whatever he gives me. It is possible that my mother gave me the name Narak not taken from the view of the people, but from the meaning of the name itself. Cute baby looked at, that's when the name inspiration came, that's the grandfather story I heard firsthand.

Meanwhile, the woman who had said good morning was still staring. How to say yes. He's not a girlfriend, not even a friend. Sometimes I feel insecure, also feel no friends, we just chat, just talk about the material problems previously given by lecturers.

I stared at the cramp. He is the same as her. “Sabai in mai kha?” How's it going? He asked me.

I said yes, well, simple without long. He also understood, I have explained to him a lot, repeatedly I say. Don't come near, I don't want to.

I don't know why when I hear Thai, I understand the meaning, but when I say it clearly I am still less stable in terms of pronunciation, even far away alias can not.

Surprisingly again, when the lecturer lectured. It was clearly plastered in my ears voices I could understand. That's oddity.

The woman told me to do some facial gymnastics, she said my face was stiff like the one who just came out of the fridge. I laughed hearing that. Martin Sirikanjana, that's his full name.