Recycling

Hurricanes

Martin Sakiranjana laughed. Her beauty expands in the air. I'm sure when the crocodiles see it, they'll all whistle calling. I don't consider it anything. Ordinary in simple view.

Sure enough, said Grandpa in January when the rain. Grandfather said: “Whatever beauty you're looking at, when your heart has been sculpted on one woman, you won't be interested. Look, grandpa used to love your grandma how never this look looked at another woman. You should know that, man. If you don't believe it, you'll feel it for yourself. If you belong to the loyal men, then you must be happy to have one woman.”

Again Grandpa's face like a hologram appeared right in front of me. If I tell you more details, I was challenged by my grandfather to write a short story in Thai. Almost struggling longer, more tired it feels stringing the characters. My hands got sick, wanted to give up, but kept trying to write a stronger Thai script.

Finally I gave up, hands up asking for leniency. Grandfather gave me the words listed above, I was challenged again to rewrite, changed to Thai.

That's the short story. Actually there are many events passed with grandfather that if told can contain hundreds of pages. Grandpa is one who likes to give advice.

If I am a writer, when I want to make a work that contains advice, it is very suitable to ask Grandpa. He will explain more than a piece of paper. I've been silent for hours listening to every word he says.

Now, here it turns out. I already know what Grandpa meant, my heart has been sculpted in one name that is Wapta. For now, it looks like I should be calmer like a sea without waves.

After talking for a while. Martin and I now walk into the recovery area.

She's a talkative woman, even though I told you I had no interest in talking. He continued to entertain in a fast-talking style, leaving me who would have been silent to see how fast he spoke.

My feeling now is to say this self is like a person who was hit by a rock on his head. It hurts, but it doesn't bleed or it's like a cluster of stars circling overhead, dizzy, I can't understand.

***

In free time. Coming home from college, I could sigh in relief, freed from the lecturer who was quite fierce.

Before while in a quiet room, busy listening. Martin Sirakanjana often patted me on the shoulder. He sat behind me, the table was his seat, and I sat in front of him.

The woman seemed to know I was sitting while sleepy because at night I could not sleep.

This is what keeps me from hearing well. The mistake happened because I fell asleep, fell down and fell to the table.

The fierce lecturer was likely looking at me, approaching, then patting the table hard. Regarding the movement, I only guessed because I was asleep at that time not knowing the situation around anymore.

The sound of a table clap is not playful, but rather loud. I woke up to rub my eyes.

That's the short story, I have to listen to the follow-up lecture, the mangut-mangut apologize. That's my mistake I have to admit.

I feel funny myself, also do not understand. I don't know, until now I don't know why I'm still grinning, feeling happy when I remember the look of the fierce lecturer who when angry exactly looks like a roasted tomato that looks a little bit empty.

The lecturer was a straight-haired woman, beautiful grumpy, indeed her habit of being angry, sometimes often angry is unclear, reminding me of one of the women who was also the same behavior. He's the big boss who is now somehow doing it.

Now, I can really sigh in relief, coming home from college feels like there is a desire to help grandfather. I went back to the store.

However, I never expected grandfather to come back with a simple speech, just like before. He told me to study again, again and again. I understand, nodding understandably.

With a determined feeling. I opened thick books, read every minute, then memorized one sentence at a time. That's the way I used to be, the way that helps increase brain capacity.

Tipping back in bed, reading until unconsciously sleeping. When I woke up somehow the shadow that was present in my mind was just Wapta. Again, is the person who misses someone always so? Or I'm the only one who's so happy to say this and that.

After being satisfied with thick books, thankfully all the information is stored neatly in long-term memory. Now, there are no more activities that keep me busy. I went back to picking up a piece of paper, my goal was to write a letter to the woman I love.

He was in a country dubbed the Equatorial Emerald. Negeri that crosses the equator and stretches the archipelago from Sabang to Merauke. I'm here in a country dubbed the land of the White Elephant. The letter was the plan I wanted to send, but it was just a plan, not in reality.

Just three words. “Wapta, how are you?” one word says the name, the other two ask the news. I don't think I should send him a letter, what exactly? Ask the news with such a short word. I'm not sure she'll like it.

I was weird, hoping she liked it. In fact, there is no need to think about just send, finished. I sighed, the one thing that made me heavy was an inability to appear.

In another suspect, there was an assumption that said he could have changed home addresses, I do not know anymore news now, as a simple example of a grandfather who moved house. It could have happened to him too.

I was wrong for not asking for her phone number. Just asking for the signature hand in the diary book he gave. The book is still intact I hold, still with the packaging that I always tidy.

After using it, I always and always keep it with a careful attitude. Even when writing in the diary as much as possible handwriting I give carefully to form a neat writing.

In the room, I sat daydreaming on the chair, opened the computer for a moment and continued writing there.

I am a person who often do doodles. When looking at the paper that is reflected in my mind is just a scribble, different when looking at a computer screen. There I can write more skillfully, more paper-efficient of course.

My hand was ready to type the letters on the keyboard, unfortunately I undo it. For so many times weighing the taste, it does not seem necessary.

Actually I know enough. It is common knowledge, anyone can write a poet word that makes women smile when reading it.

It only takes a feeling set in such a way in the words of the verses, perfected with deep sincerity.

If contemplated again, actually for what? To prove love to her or simply comfort her with endless words.

One of the poets, my friend used to say this;

if you talk about love in front of me, you're going to go through millions of years. It is not worth the feeling that spans the breadth, forming your own world of love.

I must realize that between us there is a distance that separates, millions of kilometers, I am not misinterpretation of the words of my friend, but rather I am not interpreting, I am just imagining the distance of the relationship. That's it, not in a year or hundreds of years. No, not at all.

I don't want to establish a long distance relationship that will only continue to be maintained. Simple words that I understand, limited to status without certainty.

I'd rather be a poet who writes words for me to keep, I spread them without mentioning someone's name that's special to me. Rather than saying love directly in front of him.

I have always been used to feeling. I don't want to be an evil man who can only bind a woman's feelings with poetic words.

Better this way, there is no need for a communication relationship, be it by phone or mail and so forth.

I thought deeper. At the time of writing the letter, I had a simple possibility that would later incriminate Wapta in living his days.

Starting from sleep, even more torturous, burdensome mind and heart. Let me continue to feel how that feeling is buried deep and deeper.

In some books about long distance relationships. I've read it all a lot, how they miss lovers who are far in the eye.

Longing to hum rannum, earthy voice softly invites restlessness. Relationships that may not necessarily lead to marriage. All this time, deep in the contemplation realm I did not want to be an evil man who could only put the word love, but there was not a single piece of concrete evidence in it.

Is not love proved by works? If love is just words, anyone can write it. Words written, deep thought, dreadful seduction, sheer deceit.

I feel like I've been carried by a hurricane. Flitted and continued to be flown until it fell in a sea of turmoil. At that moment, I remembered the words of Lita Aksima. She's a woman who really knows the shape of a man's speech. Exactly when the word was spoken, he continued to lie about it.