Recycling

Puddles of Water

What happened before. That's my fault because this self can't hold back anger. How many sheets of paper did I spend to explain, four or five. Whatever, I'm tired.

Probably not much. I hope that in the future this self will be better able to withstand what I have to endure, more precisely controlling feelings. Good bad wishes. Wanting to be angry or whatever is the same as following the feelings.

This vehicle is constantly on the road, the spinning wheel leads me through the nights of Maghrib time. More precisely has not entered the current time for the Bangkok region and its surroundings. Near again, time changed.

Everyone knows about it too, maybe this is what one of the script editors said that day.

He is good at giving advice in his way, even if it sounds rude. I told him to burn the manuscript I gave him. Maybe that's a good idea. It is better for the sheet to be charred unceremoniously into ashes.

I also realize that I do not really understand what is stated in a sense of the multiple of double numbers multiplied or maybe divided, I don't know, describe it in the form of an explanation involved, or, I feel myself understanding it without any hesitation.

At present. When driving home, then I realized everything about what sentences I had strung up so far for Wapta may not be as good as I thought, my writing that said lifeless.

Yes, in fact the writing is lifeless, but that is not what the editor said before. I will explain about animate writing is writing that gives the most beautiful or not the same impression that is important as if the figure is real in front. What I wrote is real.

It's just my lack of sentence decipherment that makes me unable to describe it in more detail event after event to form a story that feels real. Meanwhile, the story I made was clearly tasteless.

This is what is boring. The story in which there is no dialogue conversation as if only I live in it. Yes, it's a kind of vent or why I don't know more about it either.

What is best for me now is to write notes, more freely than anything, more freely using repeated sentences or sentences that do not fit the rules of writing.

I drive at night still in Maghrib time, has not entered the time isya now culminate a sense of wanting to re-write notes with long sentences, he said, of course using words that may be in raw or non-baku form. Up mine.

Notes that are certainly read only by me, not for others who are said to need to be perfected with some writing rules and so forth.

While maintaining a unity of meaning without burdened storyline. It's better, more free. All this writing is just a note or a previous term that I call the morning newspaper.

It's nothing, it's all about writing words into sentences down to actual paragraphs everything I've written has a storyline.

From the beginning until now this is indeed the record that day I wrote, a record that has long been buried in the software.

If anyone asks, how many chapters have you missed? I answer to wait for the time to come, everything is not as much as in a matter of a hundred, less than fifty, approaching or more.

Wait ....

Wait, when this article reaches thousands of chapters later, wait until I can write a lot more details, maybe it will be repeated. Past events will continue to be discussed until they get a point of perfection that can be felt.

All this time I kept writing words, kept doing the best I could for the lover. A figure that often appears in the mind, in front of the eyes as well as in my mind.

This is what's hard. Love that I can not say frankly plus long distance, also a little strange longing that until now clearly I feel.

A taste I am unable to say until now. Better this way, more comfortable and feel free without anything that makes me miserable to think more deeply. Just a trivial miss.

Sometimes I have trouble finding the right words in my mind. I often struggle to make what I want to say difficult to understand, the biggest problem is the difficulty of finding a word that is able to describe my feelings at this time.

Very difficult difficulty. It was on my back as if carrying a burden that I could not tell and left.

Confusing words, this may be the disconnect of words between one and the other. I tried to connect all of this into one clear story, even in the form of a sentence that explained as if I was talking alone.

Actually not so. Everything I write goes from chapter to chapter. From the beginning to the present that burdensome my eyes stared longer when reading it, feeling for themselves when that day the script editor stared intently at me.

This is my note that day. The day the editor said it was better he said the script was burned. Yes, I still clearly remember his words that made the atmospheric turmoil in my mind heat up, resulting in my anger becoming more voracious and difficult to stop.

Mournfully. What I feel I do not want to explain more sad because it is not my talent, especially it will be read more and not in sync with my attitude.

The attitude I have right now. Not long ago, not much different from whatever feeling I felt. More and more than I know this is what I realized.

The city I am currently looking at. The city filled with light along the streets looked. This is my city at the moment.

The moment when one of the script editors had said something that I thought had no feelings, smashed my script as if to add a precious moment for the second time.

Bangkok city. The city where I live today, not much different from my previous city, only sometimes speaking thai, it still feels difficult to kututurkan.

Of course, I realized what I could do was to keep practicing from time to time until now. The moment where everything seemed different. The moment where this writing looks messy in the eyes of an editor.

A time when this writing did not have a storyline in the eyes of an editor. What I know and what I think about the editor of the script, I think he just said, said a sentence that I deliberately wanted to break down my spirit or he said mentally tested.

I think the script editor lied. All this time, I have been practicing hard writing, the same struggle as fighting with myself. He still says my writing is the same as it used to be.

That's what made me not believe. Another possibility, maybe it's true. I don't know, I was made to think hard just because of this problem. Problems that I think should be mild.

Now, my brain is thinking hard, trying to reconcile the atmosphere, dilating the atmosphere of a painful feeling. It seems good also if the script I burn so as not to feel the irritation that I previously felt.

That feeling disturbs my mind. The lights of the vehicle at night maghrib approached isya, I continued to drive towards the house, hoping that tomorrow or the day after I could forget the previous events.

At present. I kept trying to forget the face of the script editor that seemed to make my feelings annoyed more and more stacked.

I was eager to try to divorce and I threw away everything and all kinds of words that I felt discomfort.

A glance like a puddle of murky water in the middle of the city park, disturbing the beautiful scenery that I had been staring at in my mind.