Recycling

Clouds of Longing; moans of the heart rumble in pain

I breathe heavily. Missing a figure of him that bounces in my mind. The longing that seemed like a bright sheen pierced the eyes. Perih felt, very agony trying to stretch the chest.

Deep in the heart of the word relocation greet the warm nuances of laughter. The memories and time with him made me realize that I should forget the figure of the woman named Wapta.

Somehow explain it? These lips have been mutely speaking, sometimes talking was faltering.

I have long weighed the taste, feeling the ticking of the clock turning peacefully on the sidelines of the memory pieces. I have gone through many things, many sorrows that I have felt, only limited myself in showing writing that I have difficulty giving a glimpse of a shadow like a mold of events in the form of a hologram.

One thing that is more important to me now is not to think about problems that have no end.

What my grandfather said the other day has made me realize many things, life is not always about love, nor is it always about sadness as long as you are able to accept it with a spacious heart, a calm mind.

No matter how bitter the past once filled my memory, I had to accept it because it was part of my life, something that had passed so far days before, months past day turned night.

Whether it was heartbreak or sweet expected love, it turned out that the reality I saw now was bitter. I kept holding back my feelings, constantly missing someone who could go away or be missing in my life.

I can only hope to continue to hope without any real action I give him. I never denied anything, the bitterness of love came from myself. I never denied it.

After all the relationship was finally finished in a breath, however it all vanished from me because of my inability to express feelings, for most people it might just be said that the phrase containing love seemed simple, but unlike me who never knows, can never say it. For me, that is the hardest word in the world.

Wapta, always be happy with your life. You don't have to miss me, I'm enough here to keep missing people about you.

I don't know why I'm still looking for the meaning of longing and love. More precisely I still do not understand, is it possible that only I in this world suffer, given the love that I could never imagine how to express.

Wapta, I often repeatedly force this hand to write about you, but unfortunately many thousands of my limitations are not able to write the best words that can describe about you, all the love feelings I have.

I had wanted to get into a language class to understand more sharply word by word, but I paused. The Thai script you mentioned is the absorbable evidence that I put in multiples of the word feeling.

I can only write words that look messy, scattered in the description that would be read would be confusing.

Simply put, I am not a writing person, my limitations seem to have been a barrier to writing, revealing the beauty of the word temple in a bond of love.

All of this is just a groan that I feel so strong, so strong I love you.

Believe this. This whole thing was not someone else's writing, but I muttered longing at almost every end of the silent nights, then wrote it down on a sheet of paper with deep love, connecting my passion to the top I can't afford to climb, a taste that's beyond anything.

I often write words about you, not about other people who have nothing to do with the longing I am experiencing.

I know this longing comes from my desire, a glimpse of my current thought arising regarding feelings and desires is a similar combination. The feeling of wanting to meet, the love of wanting to have.

Such were the feelings and desires that were truly one and the same combination, at that moment I let out a breath so long, so long that I saw that there was no hope that I now had.

The hope that I once knew, that I used to want to tell, the hope that says prayer in every labor hoping that these words would be read by you.

Honestly, Wapta. I really want a meeting between me and you, this is what the end of longing means.

Misses that I cannot explain, misses that are absorbed hope. I miss this woman who never even knew herself was the same as me?

I once realized life is not just about love that now leaves longing to meet, even for a moment I realized this life is not always about love.

There is so much more to it than romance. Look, Grandpa he used to give me two choices that are able to forget for a moment about old love.

The choice that made me shake my head did not agree. “Man, if you were told to choose between two options, pursue love or pursue your ideals, which would you choose?” Those were the two choices that my grandfather gave me.

I kept quiet, didn't answer. “Young people love is a feeling that you will get again, again, and again. Trust me, there's no need for you to be so upset.” Grandpa patted my shoulder.

All right, now that's what I remember, now I just miss a guy, Wapta. He is the one who makes me feel longing, deep longing, deep longing.

This longing appears as if inviting a restless soul that I can never explain, how long this longing accompanies the time that continues to spin, I know everything it feels. A longing feeling that hurts.

My eyes are sore, these eyes are filled with a longing that is very high peak. There are many words that I want to spell, one by one the letters chanting the tones of longing.

The whimpering is all, the words are so messy, read this with insults that are up to thrown, harbored. It remains the same;

My feeling was scattered with a sigh like the thunder snoring caresses, go already across the channel, rise high to reach the limit of no brim. The leaves that I stared at waved, then fell leaving behind the sound of philosophy, followed by a voice that I heard a little bit of wheat fighting. A moment of silence, leaving a silent voice and silence without any more call to speech.

This longing increasingly forces oneself to dwell in reflection, silent in a word of speech without action. I know it is a messy word, but can it make others understand about this matter? I consider myself weak, there are many things I cannot put in a cup.

Then give it uncomfortable, see how unstructured the words are, not in a groan, not in a cry. I knew all of this was a glimpse of an endless word, incomprehensible.

Such a longing that I will not be able to understand, even explain it I am not able to, only jokes that feel uncomfortable to hear.

Repeatedly revised, his words would become even more messy. I still did not understand the matter, my hands seemed to write without control, without the end of it all.

Writing a mind defect that is truly absent in a sense of longing and love. Everyone has their own definition and essence, what is love and longing according to them? What is love and longing in my opinion?

All this time I was always struggling to think about the endless word of love. Ever bored? I never get tired of describing the word love, especially this writing is not for others, but for women who I have longed for.

My longing seemed as if the fire was growing, the more it grew, the fire that was in the heart had been burning violently.

The fierce and fierce flames of yearning that peaked high reached the clouds.

There the air from the blaze immediately heats the clouds that make it bulge, at that time a circle of black clouds formed, a circle that sounded echoes of lightning struck. The rain poured down on my eyes.

Again I was quiet, silent as if this self had been strayed. Tired and the throbbing of my heart seemed to rhyme puppet.

I daydreamed blankly staring at the letter from Wapta, not saying anything more, it felt like I knew my love was buried far away until now I could not express it.

Is this the fate of the feeling I'm receiving or am I just a weak man who can't shake the memory of a woman. She's Wapta, a woman I can't forget.

I wrote the words to her in this notebook as if the vocabulary I used had all gone.

After that, I don't know why I had the courage to write a letter. At that time also longing and desire seemed to encourage me to write a letter more freely that I would send to him;

Wapta, I've read your letter. Do you know, now I've changed my name. My name is now Roman, that's weird isn't it? It was my grandfather who called me that, he said to remind him of my father.

I don't need to write this letter in Thai. If you want to know the reason, I want to write at length to reply to your letter, tirelessly stringing the script that makes my head bald. Haha, that's kidding.

You don't have to worry. It's pretty cool here, I feel good to be on the park bench writing you a letter, but honestly I miss meeting you, hopefully we can meet later, about your many questions, that much, of course I can't answer them one by one, just be short you're right and I'm fine. Thank you for the birthday present.

Wapta, this letter is from me. Roman, don't call Narak because I've changed my name, but it's okay people in college call me Narak. I'm just telling you.

Greetings from the Land of the White Elephant for the Equator Emerald there.

I finished writing the letter in two pieces of paper. I was still sitting, staring daydreamingly a little hesitantly at sending him or not. My sense of longing says just send the letter is no more. Only the reply form of the previous letter.

I think he's afraid that he's saying I'm overrated and overreacting. I folded the paper and I wanted to send it.

But when I walk. Across the street my grandfather cried out loud, I looked up at him standing in front of the shop waving, calling for myself to help him clean up his watermelon-eating quarters beforehand.

When I approached what I had seen before, it looked like a banquet of kings in the palace, now it changed completely.

What I saw before was a lot of watermelon, now leaving his skin on the table that seemed messy.

I sighed for a moment, for some reason staring at the now messy watermelon was astonishing.

My imagination imagined it like staring at my writing which at that time, when this self initially plunged to the side of the pull of letters to letters forming words to sentences. From sentence to paragraph to become an arrangement that sometimes makes me shake my head when reading it.

Now, I feel like I can write simple things in my life.

Neater either I don't know or maybe it's still a mess, I just need this time to cultivate confidence. Although, out there there are people who don't like me, whatever.

Of course, behind my current writing, all that is because I often train myself from day to day until now I can write more freely, more understandable than before. I'll keep trying again, again, and again.

This is my story of my self-exercising ability, of this self that never tires of being tired of continuing to train a skill that somehow mentions it. Let pass.

Destiny seemed to give me a surefire way of wrapping up longing stories that introduced me to a field of literacy that people know today.

The cause of all this was because of a woman named Wapta. He is the one who makes me excited in writing, of course, writing about himself, not about others who have absolutely nothing to do with this problem.