I sit alone as usual in the beach of Parangtritis while listening to MP3. My wife, her nieces and nephews, my daughter, playing happily with the waves which come occasionally. Sea as if to seduce, whisper something which make the sun more and more descend. Not feel twilight down slowly in the forehead, the sun dims, descend peep at reversed the grey cloudy, look into the mirror in the water sea on the side of beach between silhouette of people. More and more descend yellows the horizon, like a painting at canvas stretched that I feel want to catch in my fingers and I save in my pocket. The beautiful paintings God almighty is drown me in memories about long days that had elapsed.
At a glance, memories come like herd of seagulls which fly in my inner rice field. Now, I’m stuck on situation, I am not more than a peasant or even like a rice field doll who is tired to dispel all. Moment when asleep like this, my conscience is always help to remind me of a fair something. But how hard he? Especially this time twilight is more bring me skew to the sorrow memories than pleasure, as skew as the sun that begins to set, severity I exactly enjoy it, because I deny to my commitment that I got from the toarch of Gibran. Because not being able to, I let it dissolved the particle second by second, MP3 which contain many melancholic songs, I let it more and more carbonize burning a portion of my mind. I don’t know why I keep sitting alone here and let part of me fly to be mixed with stretch of excitement in front of my eyes. I should be aware I’ve spent minutes of excitement which lies just a few yards in front of me. How many times opportunities like that will be? But all ages to the same point : and the stream after twilight must be night. I can’t deny, I really I was carried away on a ripples between sorrow and beauty, and that is usually. It is difficult, It is not fair, but it is enjoyable to the heart of the deepest segment. Fall asleep, let me drift off a snap resignation. I often pray, in other to this character is not inherit to my daughter.
To me it need a long time to be the river continues to flow. Although I have reap of ages seeds in a big handfuls, I never get the wise face. Most of the human like me will keep learning that sheet by sheet day, sorrow or pleasure, if its have passed, it is a must may not more than be daily page that must more plentiful save in drawer that laying in the basement of life. Like people says that the memories are only something which must be left far behind our back. It may not be a burden of our shoulder and soul.
Until this second I am still learning to be a river which left the grass’ beauty, tree, little flowers, green hill and shrubs tunable. Leave the injury of sharp stones, glass break, pointy wood and sting of thorns. Moreover the people or animals steal most of them, as a drinking water or dirt washing, he and his soul keep believe with strong step to one aim. As sorrow as and as pleasure as whatever the road must passed by, she will never turn the head, moreover to comeback. She is more quiet, she will speak later when the time comes, Telling her journey to the sunsets. And we enjoy as waves. Voice which tells long journey experience.
I knot the rope’s line days in myself, that my happiness or sorrow memories before, today, this time, must be a speck of smile that be my sleep candle pass by the night waiting for light tomorrow morning. And if the sun shines, I save the candle, for the night comes. I realized, I may not let the memories flying, flatter those wings freely in my head. So as usual I take a paper and writing, those memories are only sparrows, funny birds although its little bit disturb. They can catched , then in jail by a pen on the papers. Not longer they will flew with their new wings : “ Blog or Web “ to the illusion world. In fact, I must scream to the scatter waves, Being cascaded spray with my family before night falls to my forehead.
PiS, June 2011
In Indonesian : Senja Kenangan dan Aku