Silhouetted

1.4 Every Quarter Random Beat: Raya, Anjeli, Me, and Violin

RAYA

The violin went slowly. The night was almost perfect. There's a full moon in the sky. There's a star chaperoning. There's a bright room. There's a violin on the left shoulder. Staring firmly by Raya. It had been half an hour swiped, until it came to the tones he had memorized outside his head.

It had already been half an hour, until at one point he felt himself to be that song. Fused and floated in the air with virtual tones formed. Now he plays with a tight. The violin was no longer felt on his shoulder. But in his heart. Raya now churns and makes a tone.

Often he wanted to imagine his lover, and could never imagine it before he played this tune. She knew her boyfriend had never really existed. Shadow only. Just dreaming. The only real thing that feels together is just the violin, so now Raya considers the violin her lover.

Then the day unconsciously went up in the morning. There's wet dew. There's air. There's chill. There was warm milk coffee steaming on the table. There were voices of people walking. Man. Female. Leaving the loud sound of heels on the streets. They went somewhere, with the smell of sulphurous soap on the perfume after a bath. They must have been impressive for the place they were heading to.

But what place can't go except the one in your heart?

The city also has a place like that. Not in the earth, but in his memory of the past. He lost his adolescence so quickly. Conditions make it—ah is this just fate?— should feel mature (He knows the word “responsibility” more real) before his time.

Twenty years he. But it feels like it's lived for centuries. He never had a place to return except his home. A house of type 21 with residents who do not change except himself and his mother. Twenty years of life there just by looking at the gray hair of his mother who seems more and more.

Often when night falls he quietly goes into his mother's room. Look at the flair there. Fetching her mother's sound body. Maybe he was dreaming about his childhood which is always told over and over again. Especially when working on the stitching of neighbor orders.

Raya often thinks about the time of the brothers. His mother has it. Also in adolescence. Because with sparkling he often tells how he became a prima donna in school and how the soldiers he passed his headquarters (every morning when he left school in white clothes and beetle bikes) often tempting.

Sometimes I am envious. He also wanted to have a teenage years. A second later, he usually forgot. Because now he has a house with his mother who is always seen doing stitches. He had a room that could tell him a lot about his High School days (whose uniforms he had already dropped off) without playing time. Because he must know himself to live in a time when money is more familiar to those who are rich.

He also has a violin. His lover. A gift from a blind old man he helped when hit by a car. The old man also taught him how to play. Through him—Raya did not know his name, he called him Opa—Raya understood it did not need eyes to understand the tone. More heart and feeling is needed. And raya has it. He learns quickly. Twice a week he visits Opa to continue learning or just talking.

Then over time be the violin is her lover.

Now morning. Remnants of falling dew are still felt. Humid air. Maybe the fog hasn't left yet. It opens the window. The fog that came down still exists. Covering the soil with a thin layer.

The sound outside. Bird boy. Tumultuous. The sound of rushed shoes. The voice…

Ah, right now Raya doesn't really want to talk. Outside the room there were too many sounds including the sound of a sewing machine that was playing by his mother.

Then he took the violin hanging next to him. Mounted on the left shoulder. He felt close to his lover. Seated highway. Suddenly he missed going back to adolescence.

Then the same song. Beautiful and regular tones shape the song. Slowly it turned into that song.

ANJELIC

Being sent away is a strange thing (At least for him). Indeed, not a little he saw the mother who delivered her son. But that's why he thought

“If there is a mother who brought her child, then is not the duty of the father has been replaced perfectly?”

Then he tried to think about the father's duty as the family breadwinner, and one question came up again

“Isn't my mom a breadwinner, too? So obviously my father's duty has been replaced by him, also perfectly!”

Then at school he learned that men could be the number one bullies. He cried more often by boys than women. After all the man was slovenly, smelly and always cuddly. Also men are always fighting and getting angry themselves.

From there it should have been concluded that the world of women is actually better. Is not the woman who makes the world colorful? Is it not the woman who makes the world beautiful? And isn't the world of women making this world more fragrant?

Speaking of fragrant.. Anjeli often think that at first God created the first human couple, and after that—no lapse how long— appeared the first perfume, and Anjeli still believes, the first perfume created by man, the first perfume, it's for women!

Talk about fragrant. Anjeli most like the smell of roses. Because the rose presents a scent that has been known for three thousand years by perfume lovers. Until the Greek poet Homer wrote of rose oil Aphrodite the goddess of love, fertility, and beauty applied to the body of Hector the son of the Trojan king.

Of the hundreds of species of roses, Anjeli knows that only two types of roses are used as perfumes. Rosa Centifolia[1] and Rosa Damascena[2].

Anjeli felt the rose was so special, because it took two tons of roses for a pound of its aroma essence. It is remarkable, the essence of the aroma obtained from so many flowers must be a special fragrance core.

Anjeli now wears Joy's perfume.[3] She used to wear Paris perfume.[4] Both are perfumes for women, both are perfumes that promise fragrance for the world, from women.

So again, what is the function of men?

Shouldn't we just return the men to their mother's womb again!?

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[1] A species of rose that grows in Grasse and Morocco, also known as may or provence

[2] Species of roses growing in Bulgaria and Turkey

[3] Perfume by Jean Patou

[4] Perfume from Yves Sait Laurent