Recycling

Laugh at

How much sadness in life when spent time with friends feels as if a color shows beauty.

At present. I was driving still stretching my mind, out of nowhere the end of my reflection, whether until when I could remove the memories that left a mark, scattered words of speech that are still strongly imagined.

“Narak. Don't run!” The voice of the woman running in the hallway of the school sounded as loud as possible.

When I was in Junior High on the first day, Wapta yelled after me. I ran away laughing satisfied. “Pursue, you won't be able to catch up with me.” For a moment, my feet kept running, Wapta tried to catch up.

Our footsteps echoed through the classes without awkwardness. Without thinking before it even made a scene for all the students that were clear when it happened on the first day.

All the disciples did not know the two of us, on the contrary we did not know them. That's probably the cause. I don't know exactly how the furore happened.

I ran outside the school gate, stopped at uncle meatballs. Obviously, I was tired of running. From where I am now, I stared at Wapta looking lost track.

At that moment I wanted to laugh looking at him. Yes. I managed to eliminate the tracks like a big-time villain, but I am not a villain, but all this time I often fantasized about being a superhero.

One of the superheroes I admire is Superman. He can fly, it feels great, but never imagine it deeper, later there is a headache or more horrified again can not poop all day.

I wave. “From, eat meatballs!”

Wapta looked at me scowled, pouting. He passed near me. If you want to know my heart is beating terribly. Uh, not really, when it was my heart as usual, not pounding. More precisely forget it, later it will be said more and there is no masculine impression. I've heard the words of one who clearly doesn't understand what feelings look like.

One of the script editors used to silence my mouth staring at my writing, he said to impress masculine avoid describing feelings. The words of a script editor slapped my real heart.

True also what he said, enough speech makes me want to revise the part that of course most of my writing describes feelings.

One of his aides laughed at me saying that a fictional character I made like a woman was rougher she said the pot in the form of an inverted p bulged forward, but I explained here quite a tamsil like a woman.

A glimpse of the tune of a discordant song echoed near my ears. As if the glass fell onto the ceramic floor, scattered fragments that were accidentally stepped on the foot. Pain and soreness fill the piled up taste.

I accept everything. After all swimming in the river occasionally I have to beristiharat because tired. When making the novel I was not serious about developing the character just writing without purpose.

Maybe next time, I can develop writing for the next time. Prepare for swimming with complete equipment. Diving into life from the river to the ocean ended the ocean as I was able to be patient, training day by day.

That is the life that has long passed. There are so many strange things I can learn in life. I've learned so much from tears of disappointment, sadness of disrespect. Even when this drive wanted to head to the mail delivery place, it felt like something was constantly making my mind fly away from the earth.

The sadness that comes uninvited. Then, saying goodbye without permission, leaving only traces that were touched the slightest bit of pain. Puddles of mud that look deep black.

At first glance, my mind was reminded again when the first day entered Junior High School. Me and Wapta had actually only met three days before entering school, but we got along pretty quickly. I like him who when discussing the story is always connecting, not widening everywhere.

Although my habit of telling stories will spread to all corners of the world. Wapta often laughs at my story, that is how he who is clearly not liked in terms of laughing at me. That was originally a dislike turned into something I never expected.

Wapta, since long ago you never knew my feelings that to me you were an antique. When I'm around you, we always fight about something trivial. However, behind you behind my feelings to say a series of words poets, even though I know everything passes, we remain limited to talking, together always as a friend. More precisely at that time until now I hesitate to say it. Deeper still better not to say, it is enough for me that we laugh at each other, share the joy of just a fight that changed to laugh at each other.

My feelings are off the streets. Tire from other riders obviously I stared like that is the wheel of life. I realized it long before I knew the meaning of fire and water, sighing deeply. Not how many happy words I have ever felt to date.

The cannonball in my brain seemed to be evidence that made me lose consciousness.

My hand held the handlebar firmly, speeding through the streets with eyes focused forward, while this mind and heart had crossed away leaving behind a trace of memories. The bland story that most people call the past.

I have lived this life with all kinds of wind blowing that keeps me feeling sorrow.

I know his subject when criticized, even insulted about writing, I have felt it. On that day the script editor slammed all the papers I wrote. Staring with a horrible face.

That's when I stopped writing for a month.

Laugh, it's the right of everyone to laugh, the script editor has his own wibawhat I can understand that is his identity, especially people like me is no one, only road dust that is easily blown by the wind, lost forgotten.

Beautiful scenery, once stared at was a thought. The script editor was firm in telling me to stop writing confusing stories. He looked at me like a fly that disturbed his calm.

Nevertheless, I am not a person who never gives up, but just complains to let out all the uncomfortable feelings, disturbing my mind.

Right at night in silence, I sat quietly on the prayer mats tossing many words about whatever had previously made my mind go awry. Now the curses of the night I chant in the form of verse, that's when I feel calm and peaceful.

By then, I had made the unanimous decision to stop writing, to try to stretch my chest, and to try to give myself the best word in the hope I had given to a bunch of bright lights, hoping that with a stacked record can keep me away from various kinds of negative thoughts.

Be patient and be patient. Plus effort and keep trying to get better for the next, whatever feeling I now feel with the one I used to feel. Everything is somehow the same, however, eventually, one thing I must still believe that everything I experienced before will definitely end happily.

Look at the passing of the vehicle, the moving iron is equipped with machines that help humans achieve their goals.

At present. I was driving still clearly remembering the face of the script editor who at that time smashed my writing. It happened while I was working at a freight forwarder. Has graduated school.

Actually I have sent a lot of manuscripts, but I never thought all of them turned out to be the same, there was no development maybe that's the reason why the script editor was angry with me.

For a moment I stopped writing the story, for a few breaths, staring blankly at the paper. Maybe writing a story isn't my destiny, nor is it a talent I have.

My diary and the book sheet are crammed with scribbles. Letters to letters I wrote with the grip of my hand, many words contained in it, forming long sentences exceeding a thousand kilometers in distance, giving off all the grievances that were stifling in my chest.

At the coffee shop I talked to my friends. He told me that my talent was not writing, but simply writing that had no benefit.

Even the sentence in the script I wrote said messy. At that time I accepted it, thinking his words were just laughs. Friend, the time has now passed two years from summer to winter, all has passed leaving every verse in the sheet of paper.

I'm here still writing words in the diary that are even confusing. Sentences organized into paragraphs.

Now I'm not sure one hundred percent or twenty-five percent gave my writing to one of the editors of the manuscript to be published into a book.

Let the ideal of being a writer be buried deep as I feel for the Wapta that I have not been able to say.

Actually I was hesitant to meet the script editor. Although in this world I know everyone's attitude is different, it's just that the fear of starting it.

In the shadow of one of the editors who treated me badly, smashing a script that really felt so disappointing as if shards of embers were exposed to my face.

When I think and think more deeply about the words of the script editor that at that time was true.

The fictional character I created seemed to impress an alay woman. He proposed to me to change the name and certainly not men, should women.

I refuse firmly. It's a fictional story, but I'm the lead role who wrote it. Deep in my mind I wondered if I had made the wrong character of the man who casually described feelings? Saying a variety of woods that certainly do not reflect the figure of a man.

Maybe I was wrong.

However, I do not want to change it because the fictional character I wrote was not someone else, but myself. I know myself more than anyone else knows me.

The script editor I was staring at didn't know about it, even the female characters in it were the women I loved.

I describe the feeling according to what I used to experience. When I explained it at length, the editor looked at me with his head, then raised his hand, saying I would not accept any more manuscripts that I sent.

Clamming yourself at that time felt heavy, swallowing saliva was also the same. That's how disappointed I feel in the form of a loud speech from the mouth of a script editor, there are actually many publishers in this world. Similarly, there were many script editors who lived with friendly smiles, but I had to realize the fatal mistake I made.

That's when I chose a hiatus to improve myself, maybe what he said was true. It's true that I'm not fit to be a writer.

***

After a long time passed, I knew there were some people who were just staring. That's probably a professional attitude at work or something I don't know.

As long as I keep trying whatever I want to do.

For a moment. I stopped driving. More clearly pull over, sigh. Memories of the past that day made me nauseous, catch a cold. The feeling of wanting to vomit, uncomfortable thoughts when remembering them.

I don't know if I'm in a cage, locked with dozens of livestock that make me speechless to close my nose, also closed to hope that there is a miracle that takes me to a place without frustration.

I took off my helmet, looking up at the swarm of clouds that were rumbling on the surface of the sky.

Just a moment of daydreaming, considering the matter of the script editor who threw down my writing sheet. Now I try to forget it. Thankfully, it didn't last long as those memories faded.

I even recalled the words of the previous police officer who said about long-distance love.

Now, I just remembered it when I gave you the paper. I said “This is a letter to the woman I love from Indonesia.” It is fitting that the police officer said with certainty, even though at the end of the sentence I do not believe he can speak Indonesian because I never contain the word love in it. It was all because of my previous words that said it directly without consideration aka reflex.

I closed my mouth, banging my head. How I didn't realize I was saying something that embarrassed me. I have to think positively, calmly and calmly. I don't know the police officer anyway.

I put my helmet back on, throwing away all the messy thoughts that had been so strong that they haunted me. This time I drove down the street with a sigh of sigh, expressing annoyance at myself.