Recycling

End Fight

Imagine living in a time of war. The script editor in front of me is like a mighty knight wearing a red robe. Think of me as his green-robed enemy.

Now we argue. Tighten necks like wielding swords. This is not an action genre. Make it relaxing, laughing or drinking coffee there.

“Carpet writer! If I told you to stop, yes stop the carpet!” The script editor slammed my script exactly first.

Once upon a time, when I first delivered my manuscript to one of the editors I now know he was a friend.

“WHAT'S YOUR NAME?” This time, I repeated the previous question. More loudly, of course, he had not answered.

I'd love to hit. My hand is clenched. Ready to hit so that you know what it feels like a simple saying due to the mouth of the body perishing. But, I held myself back.

“My name is not important for you to know. You need to know what's important right now is your writing that you have to burn, burn in the fire.”

MAD script editor. I tried to take a quiet breath, trying to dampen the anger continuously forcing myself to be calm, to be able to last longer.

The script editor laughed. “Already, take home this writing, quickly burn!”

“Actually young man for what did you meet me, to edit your script? Haduuh, you must have known the answer is no, your writing is even flawed logic. Upps .. sorry, only now I say honestly.” He continued the bullshit I wanted to hit immediately.

The script editor grinned. “Carpet writer!”

I'm afraid I'm just keeping quiet and holding back emotions. I made sure he wasn't fierce, but ARROGANT! He called me a carpet writer who in KBBI carpet has the meaning of expanse (mats).

Yes, I know the carpet is below. In the field, sitting or being burned who cares? Nothing, there are a lot of carpet writers in this world he said. Carpet is better. He gave me a proverb more sadistic than ever; the Writer of the Outdated Carpet. Lighter carpet alone will not make me angry.

The script editor cringed. “You're kidding?”

I laughed for a moment. “Iya, I'm just joking not to strain.”

“ABASIC AUTHOR CARPET!” The script editor instantly slapped the table, a loud voice clear once I heard barging into the eardrum.

That's what's called word wasting. Mubazir said. Whahuh? The trouble! All right, time for this fight to start. Script editor's a bitch, I'll teach you.

My fist's floating. The script editor was evasive. Too bad my punch slipped—not on target. Ah, it seems like a waste of words again. Let it be or whatever, I was very upset, very upset, very upset and very, very upset with the editor.

He's a snob. Very arrogant, so arrogant, too arrogant. The editor laughed and laughed. Word wastage will now continue to boil down like a flowing river. Wasteful and extravagant, I am currently declaring myself at war with the script editor. Okay, this isn't easy.

I have to prepare myself. Tighten the muscles, prepare the strongest argument I can say to stand up for what I have to defend.

I tried hard against the script editor by saying various arguments of the attitude of steadfastness that I set.

“Whatever argument you say until satisfied. Still your writing is like being burned!” The editor repeats the same words.

I need to calm down. Don't get emotional first. Talking about it well is the way people are polite, right. I have to be strong, that is the truth. My writing is not as good as anyone else.

“What's up? Why are you silent? Already aware where your fault lies?” The editor asked with a shitty look.

Gosh gosh? This is lebay, really lebay. I don't want to make mistakes for mistakes. Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be.

This Majaz Pleonasm will continue to boil like a rock falling down. There is a river and the rock continues to drift carried by the current to the estuary. Look, be content. Arrogant script editor.

Right now I'm trying to calm down my eyes. If you want to know it feels like I was stabbed by thousands of spears as if this self wants to faint.

He patted my shoulder. “Heh, once again I repeat give up on being a writer, when I test with patience the scathing words you are unable to hold back anger. Young man, I mean stop writing as long as you can't handle the wind.”

When hearing. I sighed, feeling empty thoughts springing up. God, I was wrong, unconsciously overpowered by anger. Wh why? I momentarily looked up, dispelling the sense of grievance that was seeping in the heart.

“You know I'm not really as famous as I am, I'm just mentally testing the writers I meet. You are one of them.”

I looked up, looking at her smiling face. “What do you mean?”

I'm obviously curious. More curious about what that has to do with calling me a carpet writer.

My brain now does not surf 5G networks, if you want to know the volcano inside of me as if active, popping a lot of words of annoyance in my mind that makes me unable to think much.

The script editor sighed. “I don't need to say much, take your writing home. One message, prepare mentally if you want to meet with the script editor again, it could be the editor you meet more than me.”

He handed me my manuscript. All right, I'm taking it. Go home relaxed of course. This was the end of the fight, a little wonder not either. This is the talent I want not in me. It's more, more, more than I know writing.

Twice it happened again, it was just that my meeting times there was a bit of resistance from me. Different from the past, where I was laughed at and only able to be silent to throw the manuscript into the trash. This is the end, the same end.

I don't want to make this narrative read sad. Come on, that's not my talent, but talkative and angry is a talent I have. Look, from this narrative alone it is clear I talk a lot and like to be angry. Unfortunately, the editor of the manuscript did not say his name at all.

What do I think of this self? No more, maybe it's true that summed up in total there were three big-headed people who told me to stop writing. Two script editors, one of my friends in a coffee shop.

However, not everything they say will be true continuously. Wouldn't that human develop while training? Will develop strongly from the disaster or something that makes his mood turbulent want to improve and solidify themselves.

Again, trying to maybe that's okay. I don't know, right now I need to reflect on my mistakes. Hold on, hold on, keep pondering until I get a point of spirit. A fire that burns to restart.

It's longer, more redundant the word. Repetition for repetition. Yes, that is my habit that I have to change, I have to improve.

I could have written it over a hundred pages long, but for what? The narrative is less pleasant, less comfortable to read. Maybe I should go to a language class.

No, no, no. Language classes are not my talent. Tired, dizzy later. How strong the tall tree is in the face of the wind. I don't know because I'm not a tree. Just a stare, maybe there are strong trees. Trees that are able to face the wind as loud as anything and some are not.

It's still maghrib. Now, I drive to spend the vocabulary scattered in my mind, the content of the unity of the sentence that has no meaning.

Let it be, let this heart be airy if I know of the most beautiful words I will write, although several times back and forth the sheets to make me know why it is difficult to write about the most beautiful words that have been trying to assemble, so far, no matter how long this self dwells or speaks more than anything else. That's the reality I have to accept.

The truth I swallowed was bitter. This is the end of the fight between myself and one of the script editors who has elaborated on the fire of patience.

Imagine living in a time of war. The script editor in front of me is like a mighty knight wearing a red robe. Think of me as his green-robed enemy.