Recycling

That's Not the Answer

I looked at the policeman who now seemed to be frowning. I looked more carefully as if he was trying to read my letter which was clearly written in Indonesian.

The letter had floated high up in my veins. It has been sculpted by the millions of words I wish to present in written form for Wapta.

I can't explain more details. That's a feeling I don't know how deep it is. Even this self considers just one question sentence almost dwell longer in answering it.

A twisting lip or something that clearly has nothing to do with the problem of multiples of two times two turns into two hundred two. The mind that stalled error thought. Comeon!

Is mathematics that complicated? Didn't in my previous life the science of counting was easy, even one of my friends used to be in a coffee shop. As we both chatted with each other four eyes. He said that Tamsil wanted to split my head, take the contents that contain mathematical knowledge.

My friend who has returned to the presence of the Almighty. He was a friend chatting in regards to my love for Wapta. Since his departure nothing else has meant the taste. Gundah gulana, musing is a daily life that I often pass.

The cycle of time that continues to pass, changing the weather and so forth. Passing day turns night and continues so, always and always.

This life of mine continues to pass as it should, just like everyone else who in a day contains twenty-four hours of time. I can tell the time of the world, the day changed.

How old am I now? Approaching twenty years less than a year. Exactly two years ago I arrived in Thailand, learning the language in as short a time as I could, and my grandfather gave me a place of education at a university.

Far more and more about my feelings of love for Wapta as if it continues to multiply day by day.

A name I never remembered except her. A sincere feeling in the form of love that is broken in the verse as sincerely as long as I can.

There was no other woman I could look up to besides her, no other woman I could love more than her. My love will never diminish.

A love that spreads wings in the form of verse. The grains fall out at every end of the night.

In various titles, the various volumes of the book I was trying to make were just for him. I never told him anything, my love has been buried further and further.

It can be assumed that my feelings are like a bunch of precious diamonds in the ground. Buried deep, unable to dig. Come on, this feeling is as if it melts inside into the depths of the ground, penetrating into the core of the earth.

The piled soul of unrest in every rolling moment. In the field that destroys buildings of beauty between words and meaning contained in a relationship.

Mournfully. Whatever or what? This chest tightness feels very sad, scraping the wound with a stubby incision. The shrill cry at night culminates a longing for him that I never even knew loved me or not?

Come, heart. Until when will you continue to love him, until when will you continue to miss him, until when?

Give a clarity of all the feelings that are piled up a lot, forming a level reaching the earth's atmosphere, heating up on the surface of the sun.

Behold, we have been separated for two years, ever since that day when an airplane flew through the air carrying a woman whom I loved flying into a country called the Equatorial Emerald.

A new separation leaves in two years, but my longing seems to bloom like a plant that has lived more than a thousand years.

How many words can I write to him. All of that would be countless of feelings of longing and deep love. Never imagined a single streak that can eat a lot of paper.

It's my writing. Sincerity that comes from the depths of the heart that no one can dig. I myself put it out in the form of a sentence, make a paragraph.

My mind has gone out, focusing on a woman I love so much, wanting me to meet, face to face with a line of smiles.

O perfect substance. No two but you, you are the ruler of the universe convey this feeling of longing to him.

This self has written many words written sincerely only for him, this self has spent a lot of time for the sake of just this longing sentence conveyed into the depths of the heart that is actually unable to be said.

How love blossoms. I don't know, I don't know. Missed the same. I never knew how those two flavors were so strong in my soul and body.

I could never think of it. I just fell silent with the note, silent in a word that was clearly confusing.

Read or not. It stays the same. This self feels it alone, tired of the longing I know is not as simple as a word of speech.

For people who have never experienced it, of course they will insult, say arguments about him that are not as good as my attitude.

Or indeed I am too much in this matter, a heart problem that will not be understood except myself.

Or I alone cannot understand how to maximize love and longing. The whole word that took time to read, even remembering it I felt like I could not.

Hope one word. Meet up. One word that will continue to cling strongly in my memory, it's hard to get rid of.

If this heart problem continues to be discussed millions of sheets of paper will be full. Countless words were written onto the sheet of paper.

Tears falling. Writing words that describe longing, this heart feels slashed. My ears are buzzing I don't know what I'm going to listen to or the jokes aren't real.

The grains of water that fell from the sky in August last seemed to give me a simple picture between the words I've been spelling.

I continued to practice writing, longer of course, more than anything in my life. I am willing to spend the daily time I currently use to write it longer, more freely.

Wapta, all this time I was not able to say my feelings to you, this self is only able to hold it. Chances are you'll know in time or not know forever.

I had time to think about my feelings let it be hidden, I did not deny it. This feeling let it sit.

That's the sentence I wanted to write in the letter, too, but I pared it off, thinking deeper into what I was actually saying.

Wal thing we're both spaced. Saying love in such a distance now feels like cake batter thrown into a frying pan. That's short.

***

Right now I'm still staring at the police who seem to be reading the contents of my letter.

I thought at that time, how could he possibly understand my letter. Gosh gosh? I laughed, but I tried to hold it. It's okay to read it.

If you want to know, I'm here standing staring at you fighting against myself, holding back a laugh more precisely that's how it is.

I have to be strong to hold it may hit my head on a tap or be told to push up for laughing at him.

I don't know why at this time I even remembered the story first, sixth grade Elementary. When the teacher lectured at length to advise me on how important it is to learn.

Though it has absolutely nothing to do with the police that I now look at, even very different, very far from the eye.

When it happened at an age that was still fairly innocent, even strangely until now I was still just plain. I don't know why my attitude has not changed until now. Is this the destiny of the Almighty? Obviously, I don't know.

“Hei, Narak. How are you?” ask my friend when in SD first.

I looked at him steadily. “Good. As you can see for yourself, I can jump up a tree and laugh in front of you.”

Friends laugh. I also laughed with him. At that time it felt my tone smoothly surf the toll road free from congestion.

We walked down the school hallway. Stare at him for a moment. “Eh, I want to tell you, yesterday I saw a flying horse splitting the clouds,” I said absurdly wanted to try joking.

“Iya, rightly so. Where did you see it?” My friend looked like he was astonished, also believing. I don't know or she's pretending.

I laugh. “Iya. Inside TV.”

My friend patted me on the shoulder. He laughed too. We keep going.

My favorite place is Salamah's mother's canteen. I thought it was an antique canteen. He sells noodles with sweet sauce. Do not use rice, if you eat it can be full.

It is not factory-made boiled noodles that have a name on each package, but only white noodles. Bihun with sweet sauce taste.

I hang out there with my friends, sharing stories about marbles and other play objects. Most spooky tells about the white crocodile demon, also the myth of the existence of a cemetery under the school floor. There are many more about mystical inhabitants.

Ah, yes sorry. All of this is a flashback of my past. It seemed like that part didn't need to be mentioned, back about the teacher that made me remember it.

Math numbers first. Obviously, I know myself, more than anyone else knows me about math.

In the past, I thought math was a talent and it wasn't a talent I had, even when it was told to count one to one hundred times the number in my mind. When it comes to speed I raise my hand I can't answer it quickly.

I was pensive for a long time. With ten fingers busy counting, also my lips are muttering saying numbers.

If you want to know the number that was imagined at that time in my mind was twenty-eight. Just on the day of the youth oath, I remembered October 28th, then the teacher's sentence fell on the tip of the tongue, seventy-three.

28×73\=

I was told to write on the board. Calculating results. Then added the problem again with a complicated super debur formula for me, the formula determines FPB and KPK.

It doesn't take long, hands up and give up. With a sigh a little tired counting. Actually 28×73 I have found the answer 2044 by way of declining crosses.

In other circumstances, I do not understand the formula to determine FPB and KPK. That's why I was standing in front of the class. Laughing at all the students who were sitting neatly at the table.

I also laughed. Those are my friends I consider family because in my life I never know how to love my parents. They both left me at the age of seven. I have always been independent and strong trying to move.

With the teacher's firm voice telling me to leave the classroom, I was sentenced to stand in the hot sun so as to regret why I couldn't do math.

If I wanted to know deep inside my feelings when I was in a state of frustration, why am I not just that there are still many of his students who might be just like me.

“Did the teacher deliberately punish me or did he not want to give me a lesson?” I say what makes me not clingy inside.

I went out of class with a raging feeling of indeterminate thought, recalling his words that I heard only one word. Get out!

I know the teacher is strict. I don't know how it feels even though I know his attitude still when I hear it hurts.

I accept everything that has been a punishment for me. Maybe it's true that I have to be diligent in learning about mathematics that I can't.

It was in the sixth grade of Elementary School that my first experience was punished not for breaking school rules, but I was the one whose brain was half.

I'm standing under the flagpole. Looking up respectfully, staring at the fluttering of the moving flag touched by the wind.

My body can only grumble, regret my own mistakes, make a firm promise to the strains of tones that lead me to where I imagine snow. It's lighter that I need the cold now.

Thankfully, my feeling was so quiet that it made time seem to roll faster until now showing midday, a glimpse of the sound of the school bell and the air around it felt stinging, stinging, the sun round the light clearly I stared with a hope asking for prayer so that the punishment was done.

Don't ever ask my sweat sweat splattered, even my uniform like rain, my throat feels dry.

It's all harder than I thought it was easy. My feelings were invited around to a place of annoyance, wanting to shout in anger, but how could I do it.

At a glance I saw from a distance the teacher looked at me, then approached by holding a book in his hand. I pretended not to see it, closing my eyes with my head to the slowly fluttering flag.

There's nothing more I can imagine. Silence in a thousand languages is better than staring at the teacher who pisses me off.

He said my name. A voice that sounded close, wal thing I was shutting up. I opened my eyes and looked at the teacher who was standing next to me.

“Narak, are you okay?” He rubbed my face slowly, giving a smile that clearly astonished me.

“Why?” ask me a little slowly.

Usually I was agile in terms of speech, but at that time the teacher looked at me with a compassionate light that seemed to make my tears want to spill.

I clearly remember the face of the teacher who emanated as if regretting his actions. He punished me for standing in the hot sun.

My clothes had been soaked by the sweat that kept on escaping from the gaps of the pores of the body, I could no longer even say more words in a matter of minutes.

He replied not long full of gentleness which was certainly different from his previous attitude. He told me to go with him to a special room he said I would get an extra lesson.

I don't say much, mangut-mangut directly according. I don't think I can understand his point more.

Whether I'd be given another long talk, obviously I don't know. Hope you are given relief on everything.

***

Arrived in his room. The cold air coming out of the AC seemed to calm my soul. That's when the teacher gave a lesson about determining the FPB and KPK that I could not do.

“Narak. I'll give you questions. You answer, you will explain in more detail to you.” The teacher wrote it on my paper. He was the one who asked me to bring out the book.

How good it is that he wrote it himself. While I was just stunned, staring at the movements of his hands wrote neatly about the matters. At noon, it does not feel hot, AC continues to cool the room it feels good this way.

Than I was home alone. My school fees are also from my father's legacy. Since the age of seven I have known how to use money, for some reason maybe I was born in a family blood type that likes to count numbers.

Even my father was a management man at one of the companies. I know that when I saw the file neatly stored in the closet as well as some notes.

Although I actually don't know him very well. When grandfather discussed watermelon, I never even knew that my father's figure was also not like watermelon until he liked it which is now the same as me.

We have a lot in common when it comes to liking. That day in the room. I just arrived in Thailand Grandpa asked me what I like.

I said I liked the sky. Grandpa said again that dad likes him too. And I love the color blue.

At that time I entered the room of the mother who was clearly around her in blue so that the reflex pronounces innocently impossible sky twilight blue. Grandfather laughed at hearing that, saying he didn't lose the figure of my father and mother because they were residing inside me.

I remember it as if it were all more free. More than anything in my life. The form of feeling that seemed to be poured into a cup filled with tenderness, then I drank slid into the throat.

And in the hull of the water it was as if painting a color of beauty that made my heart beat no less than the amount of pulsation I could count.

Teacher is scapegoating, beaming with me full of bead eyes of attention. He taught me a lesson I could not understand.

When it came out of the mouth of his mouth the shape of a fairy tale sound. He told me how important it is to learn.

Old tales echoed through the room that clearly had only the two of us in the room.

I put my ears on, and my eyes were clearly focused. It is more simple to listen until the story is finished spoken by him.

No why. This time I was told to keep learning. He said it was all for what was important in my life.

Nevertheless. Deep inside my mind was the feeling in my life. An impression that shows that nothing matters in my life.

Everything just passed by without me knowing how much time had passed in my life.

This is the feeling that is bothering my mind right now. In the past at an age that did not know anything, I was free to laugh and say things with a luster color that I could not translate in the form of music.

Obviously my voice is not as good as the singers who are heard pleasant and melodious. My voice is not so.

I recalled where the Elementary School teacher used to tell me at length about my motivation. Form of learning.

Not far. He told his own story, explaining to me the simple points between his complaining and tired learning. Since then math has become my favorite lesson, gradually what I thought was hard was not.

Of course, in every difficulty there is a process that must be undertaken. How difficult the process is then the results will feel amazing. Feelings must be able to sacrifice.

Mathematics is not difficult for me. All thanks to the teacher that day gave me a word of tenderness. He explained in more detail, it turns out that what I previously thought could have been wrong.

If you want to know my encounter with Wapta, a woman I loved until now. It happened a long time ago in one of the Junior High schools. That's where I loved it in the beginning.

The woman in the red hood with a beautiful smile. I tried to keep approaching it with a simple mathematical formula count, but unfortunately it always failed.

Even now my feelings are still hidden. We were just friends until graduating High School decided to work with each other in the services of a freight forwarder.

At that time I did not know it turned out our superiors were very fierce people. Big Boss, a single woman with abundant wealth. Who likes angry women? Who in the world likes it?

Even my former co-worker was powerless to hold back his anger from wanting to slap, but he was our superior. Big bosses. Incredibly, her appearance looked beautiful, but her attitude was frightening.

For me she is a woman who belongs to the hardworking class, visible from the way and focus she is in the field she is working on.

I know a person well enough from watching his movements, but I never ask him directly. Just my perception can be right, can also be wrong.

That's not the answer. The soft words from the teacher are still fresh I remember when I was in a special room for me to learn mathematics.

The services of a teacher that I will always remember no matter how time passes. One day I will grow up to be a successful person. One thing I want to say and give a welcome is to the teachers who have been willing to teach me a lesson for so long.

They are the ones who for me have given what is best to their students, even now I still remember the face of the teacher, remembering all the memories with him.

He seemed to have turned into a father figure who looked at me with gentleness. He knew I was an orphan when I was home alone.

He came to my house with a lot of food in his hand. Looking at me smiling. In my life I have never lost love.

But when it comes to the end of the silent nights. It was at that moment that the haunting feeling came as if whispering scaring away my feelings that I immediately spent time writing notes.

It happened when the age of SD continues until now. I don't know why now I miss the figure of a teacher who after graduating from Elementary School he no longer comes to my house, I don't know maybe the busyness in teaching makes him unable to visit my house.

All of that has passed through the day and night, I do not need to worry more, just silence while sighing is also okay.

Everything will feel good when I know the bitter memories that I can hold tight, accept everything from past events, give my best smile that I can now.

More than that. I have to believe and keep trying for what is most important in my life. The most important person in my life is my grandfather.

He was like a teacher who gave me advice that day to keep learning. That's what I have to fight for right now.

About my love for her. That's one feeling I will keep remembering. Hopefully, he and I can meet again.

When I was really ready for everything, it was easy for me to say all the feelings that had been buried in him. Maybe, I never knew.